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*Holdenhurst Hall 

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HOLDENHURST HALL. 


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HOLDENHURST HALL 


21 SSodcL 


JUL25 1895’ 


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WALTER 


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BLOOMFIELD. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B. BAVTS . 


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NEW YORK: 


ROBERT BONNER'S SONS, 


PUBLISHERS. 


THE CHOICE 8ERIE8 ! I88UED MONTHLY. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, SIX DOLLARS PER ANNUM. NO. 126, 
AUGUST 1, 1895. ENTEREO AT THE NEW YORK, N. Y., POST OFFICE AS SECOND CLASS MAIL MATTER. 







COPYRIGHT, 1893 . 

BY ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. 

(All rights reserved.) 


Published Simultaneously in London and New York. 


Partially Reprinted from “ The New York Ledger . ” 


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i 

H> 


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C 


PRC88 OF 

THE NEW YORK LEOQER 
NEW YORK. 


H.H. PRINCE FREDERICK DULEEP SINGH 


INTERESTED IN ALL THAT PERTAINS 
TO SUFFOLK, AND FIRST TO EXPRESS 
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FULLY DEDICATED 


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CONTENTS 


I. THE BROTHERS 

II. THE OAK CHESTS .... 

III. A FAMILY DINNER PARTY . 

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT .... 

V. HOLDENHURST HALL .... 

VI. UNCLE SAM AND THE REV. SILAS FULLER 

VII. CONSTANCE MARSH . . ' 

VIII. NEWS FROM AUSTRALIA 

IX. RECALLED TO SUFFOLK 

X. RECORD OF A WASTED LIFE : ROGER TRUEMAN, HIS HISTORY 
WRITTEN WITH HIS OWN HAND, A.D. 1671 

XI. ROGER TRUEMAN t HIS RECORD CONTINUED 

XII. ROGER TRUEMAN : HIS RECORD CONCLUDED 

XIII. UNREST 

XIV. THE CRYPT 

XV. FATHER AND SON 

XVI. EXIT UNCLE SAM .... 

XVII. TO THE WEST 
XVIII. NEW YORK CITY . 

XIX. MRS SAMUEL TRUMAN “ AT HOME” 


PAGE 

I 

6 

II 

18 

23 

30 

37 

44 

52 

59 

70 

78 

96 

104 

112 

120 

129 

140 

149 

159 


XX. THE OHO STORY, 


CONTENTS. 


chap. 

XXI. ANNIE WOLSEY FOUND 

• • 

• 

t 

• 

• 

PAGE 

168 

XXII. TWO CONFESSIONS 

• • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

178 

XXIII. AT TARRYTOWN 

• • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

188 

XXIV. THE ACCUSATION 

• • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

201 

XXV. DEATH .... 




• 

• 

215 

XXVI. HOMELESS 

• • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

219 

XXVII. AT THE WINDSOR HOTEL, NEW YORK 

• 

• 

• 

• 

226 

XXVIII. MISTRESS AND WIFE . 


• 

• 

• 

• 

236 

XXIX. CONCORD .... 




• 

• 

243 

XXX. UNCLE SAM DOWN 

• • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

253 

XXXI. AT NEWPORT 

0 0 

• 

• 

• 

• 

262 

XXXII. l&vprjKa .... 

0 0 

• 

• 

• 

• 

272 

XXXIII. CONCLUSION . * • 

0 • 

• 

• 

V 

• 

28l 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


i. 


THE BROTHERS. 

Though like in sex and creed and race, 

Sprung from one father and one mother, 

Yet who in each career may trace 

Resemblance that denotes the brother? 

“Well, if I had determined to go to the devil, I would not 
elect to travel via the workhouse.” 

I had been closely observing my uncle for more than two 
hours, and diligently noting his words and gestures, when his 
utterance of this remarkable sentence confirmed the dislike of 
him which I had conceived at our first meeting. With only a 
brief and narrow experience of men and manners, the words 
impressed me as harsh, not to say brutal, for a rich man to 
address to an only brother whom he had not seen for twenty 
years, and who was comparatively poor. 

“I have made no such determination,” said my father. 
“As for the workhouse, my income is still some seven 
hundred pounds a year more than nothing, and I don’t 
anticipate becoming a burden to anybody, not even ” — turning 
his face towards me and smiling — “ my own son.” 

“ Seven hundred pounds ! ” exclaimed my uncle Sam, con- 
temptuously, “ seven hundred pounds ! And what will that 
pitiful sum do towards maintaining a gentleman for twelve 
months ? Why, there are four of the men in my pay who 
each earn fifteen hundred dollars more than your entire 


2 


HOL DENHURS 7 HALL. 


income ! But how’s this ? Holdenhurst used not to be such 
a beggarly property, or my memory is worse than I thought 
it was.” 

While my father is occupied with the melancholy recital of 
the causes, natural and political, of the enormous depreciation 
of agricultural values in England — which in ten years had 
reduced his income by rather more than half — I will furnish 
the reader with a brief history of the men thus engaged. 

When little more than ten years old my father, Robert 
Truman, had succeeded to an estate of two thousand acres, 
consisting of two entire parishes, Holdenhurst Major and 
Holdenhurst Minor, situate a few miles from Bury St Edmund’s, 
in Suffolk. On his coming of age, Robert Truman found 
himself the possessor of a rent roll of ^1500, a lump sum of 
about ,£12,000, which had accumulated during his minority, 
and a large nondescript manorhouse of which no archaeologist 
could determine the date or order, it had been so much 
altered and added to at various periods. The estate, which 
had formed part of the immense possessions of the rich abbots 
of Bury, was, upon the dissolution of the abbey there, settled 
by Henry VIII. in perpetuity upon the first member of my 
family of whom there exists any record. 

With but one relation in the world — his brother Samuel, two 
years his junior — undoubtedly my father entered upon the 
business of life under conditions more prosperous than attend 
the vast majority of mankind. But that balance which men 
adjust where Fortune has shown more favour to one than to 
another, themselves making the tale of human happiness and 
misery nearly the same in all cases, was soon made apparent 
by the two brothers. The affections of these young men 
centred upon one girl. Samuel was the favoured lover. But 
women had few rights and many wrongs in agricultural East 
Anglia in 18 — ; and so the beauty of Holdenhurst became the 
wife of Robert Truman; her father, a small farmer ambitious 
of forming a family connection with the “ Squire,” having so 
commanded her. 


THE BROTHERS. 


3 


Before the marriage my uncle Sam left England for America 
with the expressed intention of never again visiting his native 
land. In less than a year my father had lost by death the wife 
he had thus acquired ; a loss which, though it deeply affected 
him, was patiently borne for the sake of the infant boy who was 
at once the cause of his sorrow and his hope. 

In America Samuel Truman had entered into commercial 
speculations and flourished exceedingly. On the death of my 
mother he had written to my father a few lines expressing his 
sympathy — his first communication with his brother after his 
departure from England. After that his letters had been brief 
and infrequent ; but reports reached Holdenhurst from time to 
time of his extraordinary success in trading, of his ever-increas- 
ing wealth and influence, of his shrewdness, his penetration, 
his singleness of purpose. Through all the days of my boy- 
hood I remember no variation in the accounts of the steady 
and continued decline in value of my father’s property, and of 
the rapid increase of my uncle’s wealth. Neither of these 
circumstances, however, interested me until, in my nineteenth 
year — the week before this history opens — my father received 
a letter from his brother in New York stating that he had been 
married for three years to an American lady, and that he and 
his wife intended to visit Holdenhurst, and might be expected 
to arrive in about ten days. 

It was almost immediately after the arrival of my uncle at 
Holdenhurst, thus intimated, that the conversation with which 
this chapter opens took place. Uncle Sam did not, however, 
bring his wife with him as he had intended, but left that lady 
in London in a furnished house which he had hired at 
Kensington, she being prostrated by the voyage from 
America. 

“ Well,” said uncle Sam, when my father had finished speak- 
ing, “ I guess your oration would be worth a cool million to the 
Republican party. You must visit the States and tell the 
Americans from a hundred platforms all you have just told me. 
You must come at the opening of the Presidential campaign. 


4 


H0LDENHURS7 HALL. 


Why, you will convert every Tariff reformer from Maine to 
California ! The Democrats will be smashed.” 

My father shook his head. “ I am no traveller,” he said, 
“or I should have ventured beyond Europe nineteen years 
ago,” again turning towards me and assuming the kindly 
expression which was never absent from his features when he 
regarded his son. “ The affairs of my own country engage 
very little of my attention, and as for the United ” 

“ Well, well,” interrupted uncle Sam, “ we won’t discuss that 
matter further at present. What is the sum total of the two 
mortgages you have on this place ? ” 

“Three thousand five hundred pounds.” 

“ Let me have the papers,” said uncle Sam, stretching his 
hand out as though he expected that his brother had them 
ready in his pocket, “ and I will wipe them both out 
to-morrow.” 

“ You are very kind,” answered my father, somewhat 
embarrassed. “ Ernest, go to my black cabinet and fetal an 
oVong packet. You will find it in the top drawer, tied with 
red tape.” 

With a greatly improved opinion of my uncle, I hastened 
upon my errand, and in a minute or so my father was handing 
his brother the papers for which he had asked. 

“ It’s a smart lad,” remarked my uncle, fixing his steel grey 
yes u pon me so penetratively that I felt rather uncomfortable ; 
“ what are you going to do with him ? ” 

“ Do with him ? ” echoed my father ; “ I don’t understand.” 

“ Well, do you propose that he should spend his life in this 
place watching the crops fail, or selling them for less than the 
cost of production when they succeed ; or is he to be a man 
whose presence is felt in the world ? ” 

“ I have not yet seriously considered Ernest’s future,” 
answered my father gravely. 

“ Then let me help you to do so another time,” said uncle 
Sam. “ I’ll return to town by the first train in the morning, 
and having paid off these mortgages, will be back again some- 


THE BROTHERS . 


5 


time in the evening, bringing Mrs Truman with me, if she is 
well enough to come. By-the-by, I suppose this packet 
contains all the documents necessary in closing the mortgages. 
Do Saul and Isaacs hold any of the old deeds?” 

“ All the necessary papers are there,” said my father. “ The 
money was advanced simply on my note of hand. The old 
grants of the abbey lands in 1 atin and Norman French are 
still in the two old oak chests wnere they have always been.” 

“ I would like to see them,” said my uncle ; “ they must be 
very interesting.” 

“ You shall. Ernest shall get them out for jou to look at 
by the time you return.” 


TI. 


THE OAK CHESTS. 

Tokens and trifles mark the flight of years, 
Domestic records, and with silent force 
Recall our half-forgotten hopes and fears, 

And point to Time’s unheeded, hastening course. 

This thin gold ring, worn almost to a thread, 

For fifty years served to denote a wife 
Now for a century numbered with the dead — 

Yet here the bauble which she prized in life ! 

The face this ivory miniature presents 
Is fresh and fair, a maiden in her prime ; 

My grandame in her days of innocence ! 

Long fallen a prey to all-devouring Time. 


Accustomed from my infancy to wander unrestrained through 
the gloomy rooms and corridors of Holdenhurst Hall, I had 
flattered myself that I was familiar with every nook and corner 
of the old mansion. 

But my mind was considerably exercised in the endeavour 
to determine the whereabouts of the two oak chests to which 
my father had referred in his conversation with uncle .Sam. I 
did not remember having ever seen any such chests, and could 
think of no place from garret to basement which I considered 
likely to contain them. 

These thoughts — much confused with idle speculation con- 
cerning my uncle whose acquaintance I had just made, of my 
aunt whom I had not yet seen, and Qf various ideas started by 


THE OAK CHESTS. 7 

the conversation of the two brothers — kept me awake until 
long after I had retired to bed. 

I tossed about restlessly and punched my pillows, but could 
not sleep. When I lay on my left side, all that my uncle had 
said recurred to me vividly, and I hated him for his cool 
cynicism and the sense of power which had now and again 
been apparent through the calmness of his manner ; but, 
turning upon my right, his generous gift impressed me as really 
magnificent, and I could not but feel grateful to him for 
relieving my father of what I knew had occasioned him some 
anxiety. My uncle’s wish, too, for a voice in determining my 
future course in life interested me greatly and opened inter- 
minable trains of thought. At last I lost consciousness, but 
did not sleep soundly nor for long. 

When I rose, it wanted some minutes to six o’clock. A 
brilliant streak of sunshine lay across the dark oak floor of my 
room, and through the casement could be discerned a clear 
blue sky such as is seldom seen in England in the month of 
March. 

Brimful of health and animal spirits, notwithstanding the 
little sleep I had had, I sprung from my bed, and, having 
hurriedly dressed, sought my father. 

Somehow, in an ill-defined way, I was conscious of the 
opening of a new era in my life. Whether it was what had 
transpired between my father and uncle on the previous night ; 
or the joyousness of the opening day, which was of a sort that 
seemed to confirm the death of winter and herald approaching 
summer, or both, I know not ; but it seemed to me that I had 
bidden adieu to boyhood and had become a man. 

My father had risen a full hour before me, and was pacing 
the outer path of our old garden, with his hands clasped 
behind him— his usual contemplative attitude. 

“Why,” said he, after I had acquainted him with my 
difficulty, “ ’tis only yesterday that I noticed you sitting upcn 
one of the chests, reading. They stand in the library, one 
beneath each window, where they have stood for the last three 


8 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


hundred years or more. It was your grandmother, I think, 
who worked cushions and valances for them, and so converted 
them into strange-looking but comfortable settees.” 

Alas, I was ashamed to think how many of my boyish hours 
I had spent lying upon one or other of these chests aimlessly 
reading romances and poetry when I had been supposed to be 
studying more useful but less congenial matter! 

As soon as we had breakfasted my father began to search 
for the keys of the chests, for he had but a vague idea as to 
where they might be found. While he was employed rum- 
maging old bureaus and cabinets, I removed the coverings 
from the chests, marvelling greatly that they should have so 
long escaped my notice. To do this, and to clear the table 
ready to receive the documents, did not engage me many 
minutes, and I was impatient to obtain the keys. 

But the keys could not be found. I assisted my father in 
the search for them, and together we turned over as many 
knick-knacks — quaint jewellery, miniatures, pocket-books, 
tokens, old coins, packets of love-letters tied with faded silk 
and dated early in the last century, metal purses, scent bottles, 
etc. — as would have stocked a first-class curiosity shop. But 
that which we sought we could not find. 

It was now past noon, and my uncle and aunt were expected 
to arrive at four o’clock. Though we had been searching for 
several hours we had not yet examined the contents of half the 
cabinets and closets which abounded in our old manorhouse, 
many of which had not been opened within the memory of our 
oldest servant. My father would have given up the search but 
for my advice to him to continue it. Wisely or unwisely, my 
father seldom or never refused to comply with any wish that I 
expressed, and he saw that I was interested in the odds and 
ends accumulated by our family. 

After another two hours of searching my father found the 
keys of the chests, tied together and labelled, in the place where 
he had first looked for them. With a peculiar facial expres- 
sion, in which it was difficult to determine whether fatigue, 


THE OAK CHESTS. 


9 


annoyance, or triumph predominated, he tossed them to me 
and, remarking that he had had as much of this affair as he 
cared for in one day, left me to do as I pleased. 

Having hurriedly deposited the few things before me in 
the places where they had been found, I hastened to the 
library and proceeded to open the nearest chest. The key 
entered the lock as easily as might be wished, but was turned 
with difficulty, and made a harsn, grating sound. I had no 
sooner raised the lid than the air became so charged with 
minute fungi that I involuntarily stepped uack and opened a 
window. 

The chest was quite filled with parchment or vellum docu- 
ments, some rolled and others flat, and to nearly all of them 
were attached large pendulous seals. I did not pause to 
examine them, but transferred them all to the table, and 
opened the second chest, wherein I discovered nearly as many 
documents as in the first, all of similar character. But there 
was also a thick folio volume, filled with close, neat writing, 
every letter of which appeared to be formed with great care 
and accuracy. About two-thirds of the book was English, and 
the remainder strange characters, which I had little doubt were 
Oriental, though I was not scholar enough to determine the 
language to which they belonged. This book, and a copper 
box, about eighteen inches by twelve, and five inches deep, 
were all I found besides the documents. The box, which was 
locked, was much discoloured ; but I could discern writing 
upon the lid such as may be produced by nitrate of silver 
upon copper. All I could decipher at a hasty glance was 
“Roger Trueman,” written in characters rather larger than the 
others. Trueman being a very old form of our family name, 
and the box exceedingly heavy for its size, I at once conceived 
the hope that it contained something of special value. As I 
could find no key to the box, I set it aside with the folio 
volume, resolving to carefully examine both at my leisure. 

At this moment a servant entered the room and informed me 
that my uncle and aunt had arrived. Dinner had been 


10 


HOLDENHLRST HALL. 


ordered to be served as soon as possible, and there barely 
remained sufficient time for me to prepare for it. 

Quite tired of my day’s work, the intelligence was not 
unwelcome. Taking with me the folio volume and the copper 
box, I locked the library door and put the key in my pocket, 
leaving all the old documents on the table within. I then 
sought my bedroom, where, having safely bestowed the book 
and box, I made what I then thought was an elaborate 
toilette such as befitted my introduction to my American 
kinswoman. 


III. 


A FAMILY DINNER PARTY. 

This way and that the brothers went— 

1 his one to range a continent, 

And this at home to find content 
In patriarchal tillage. 

Man’s life is brief and years fly fast, 

And, twenty summers quickly passed, 

The exile sees again at last 

His native English village. 

The tale is new and yet is old, 

How some will lose while some gain gold 
In ways diverse a thousandfold, 

And call it trade — not pillage. 

The dining-room at Holdenhurst Hall was a large,- sombre 
apartment. The floor was of oak, uneven through age, and 
perilously slippery, and the walls of Dutch oak panelling, 
relieved here and there by portraits in oils of horses and dogs 
Four windows did not admit sufficient light for the room, and 
on the spacious hearth no fire could be made large enough for 
comfort in winter. The centre was occupied by an enormous 
table, supported by legs about ten inches shorter than those 
with which a modern dining table is furnished, and round it 
were ranged thirty-two chairs, fifteen at either side and one at 
eacfi end — cumbrous structures or oak and embossed leather, 
mounted on wheels. Indeed, I never look at this table 
without recalling the ludicrous aspect presented by our friend 


12 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


Major Armstrong, of the Suffolk Yeomanry, when dining with 
us. Major Armstrong stands six feet four, and the distance 
from his plate to his mouth is so great that when he is engaged 
with the former it appears almost as if he were digging the 
ground with his fprk. A large sideboard, loaded with silver, 
completed the furniture of the room. 

When I entered, it was at once apparent that this was a 
special occasion. The table was lighted by more candles, and 
spread somewhat more luxuriously than usual, and, infallible 
sign ! old John, our one indoor manservant, had on his yellow 
silk waistcoat — a venerable and conspicuous article of his 
attire which I remembered from my earliest infancy, but had 
never before known him to wear except on Sundays — and was 
moving about busily between the sideboard and the table. 

I disturbed my relations in an examination they were 
making of the quaintly carved mantelpiece. My father at once 
stepped towards me, and taking my hand in his own, led 
me towards a beautiful and very elaborately dressed lady, 
saying — 

“ Permit me to introduce my son. Ernest, this lady is your 
aunt Gertrude.” 

Now though in the first blush of my youth I had suffered 
from overmuch self-consciousness, I had flattered myself of 
late that I had reasoned myself out of that malady, and was as 
self-possessed as a young man of nineteen need be. Vain 
delusion ! Whether it was the striking beauty of my aunt, the 
splendour of her dress and jewels, or my intense surprise at 
finding her a woman of at most thirty, whom I had mentally 
pictured as about fifteen years older than that, I know not ; 
but certain it is, I had never felt so awkward and foolish 
before. I cannot quite remember what I said, but I believe 
a few disconnected words escaped my lips to the effect that I 
was very pleased to make her acquaintance. 

My aunt noticed my confusion, and with admirable tact 
endeavoured to allay it. t{ I am sure 1 am much gratified to 
see you and your father,” she said in a soft voice. “ My 


A FAMILY DINNER PARTY. 


13 


husband has often talked to me of you both, and of his old 
home in England. Your house is perfectly delightful, and I 
long to see more of it. You must show me all over it when 
you have time.” 

Replying that nothing could give me greater pleasure, and 
that I would do so to-morrow if she was sufficiently rested to 
undertake the task, I shook hands with my uncle and felt 
rather more at my ease. 

My father having taken his seat at the head of the table with 
his sister and I on his right, and his brother on his left, John 
removed the covers, and dinner was served. 

“ No,” said uncle Sam, addressing my father, “ the change 
is not all in myself as you suggest, though of course a man’s 
ideas modify and expand a good deal in twenty years, especially 
if his affairs are extensive and he mixes much with business 
men. Positively, I believe what I have told you, that English- 
men are vastly altered from what they were when I lived among 
th£m. They are not so enterprising ; they seem to lack go and 
grit, and have fallen into a slow way. Everything in England 
is depressed — capitalists afraid to invest, labourers without 
work to do. Coming from London to-day, we saw a man and 
a boy with two horses ploughing a field. Why, the scene 
would serve for an illustration to one of Pope’s pastorals. No 
wonder that farming in England don’t pay when you tickle 
and scratch the earth in such primitive fashion ! And while 
the labourers are killing time in this way, your legislators are 
talking about small farms and allotments for labourers. Bosh, 
my dear sir, bosh ! What is wanted is for at least a hundred 
landowners in each county to form a trust, and to employ 
modern machinery in cultivating their aggregated lands — that 
is to say, a farm of tolerable size. By-the-by, what is the 
acreage of this place ? ” 

“ Two thousand acres.” 

“ A mere potato patch ! I have a lot twenty-five times as 
large, as good as or better than the best soil in England, within 
a hundred miles of Chicago — acquired it in one deal.” 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


H 

“ Are the large farms in America very profitable ? ” asked my 
father. 

“ No ; the most unprofitable things in the States ; still, they 
do pay a beggarly fifteen or twenty per cent. Nobody loses 
money by them.” 

“ And the labourers — of course they are paid more liberally 
than in England.” 

“ Liberally ! What has liberality to do with a business 
arrangement? The labourer sells his labour for the most 
money he can get for it, and the capitalist sells his money for 
the most labour he can get for it. Midway between these 
antagonistic forces is found the natural rate of wages. An 
American labourer does better for himself than an English 
labourer, if that is what you mean.” 

I observed my uncle closely while he talked to my father. 
He was a tall man, slightly built, with regular features, fresh 
complexion, and keen, restless eyes. His manner was very 
earnest, and he had a habit of looking hard at the person to 
whom he was speaking. His style was too aggressive to please 
me, but I considered him a very clever man, and was much 
interested in all that he said. Personally, he slightly resembled 
my father; in other respects the two men were absolutely 
different. My father was a man of few words, and his subdued 
manner showed that he regarded the doings of men rather as a 
spectator than as an actor among them. 

My uncle and father continuing to talk together upon sub- 
jects in which neither my aunt nor I could join, it occurred to 
me that the lady was neglected ; and I deliberated upon the 
expediency of opening a conversation with her. Failing to 
think of anything more appropriate, I asked her how she liked 
England, but was so nervous in putting the question that I 
knocked the contents of a salt cellar into her lap. 

This unlucky accident afforded me an unexpected relief. 
My aunt accepted my apologies so gracefully, and with such 
charming good humour, that I was enabled from that moment 
to converse with her like a rational being, Looking at her 


A FAMILY DINNER PARTY. 


15 


somewhat more observantly than I had done before, I noticed 
that she had a profusion of brown, wavy hair, that her light 
blue eyes were large and expressive, her features beautiful, and 
her figure admirably proportioned. Altogether, I thought her 
the handsomest woman I had ever seen. 

“ I arrived in England less than a week ago,” she said, “ and 
have seen very little of your country. I like London im- 
mensely, what I know of it at Kensington ; but I have not 
even visited your Museum there yet. When we return to 
London at the end of the week, I hope to present my intro- 
ductions and to go about a little with my sister.” 

“ Have you a sister in England ? ” asked my father, looking 
up. 

“ Yes,” said uncle Sam, answering for his wife ; “ didn’t you 
know that ? Mrs Truman has a young sister who lives with 
us — her only relation in the world excepting we three. I 
thought I told you about her.” 

“ No,” said my father ; “ I have never heard of her. Why 
didn’t you bring her with you to Holdenhurst ? ” 

“Constance was more upset by the voyage even than I,” 
remarked my aunt, “ and did not feel equal to coming here.” 

“ You should know Connie,” said my uncle, addressing me ; 
“ she’s a smart girl.” 

I made no reply to this ; but my aunt filled up the gap by 
asking if I was at liberty to return to London with them, that 
they might have the benefit of my knowledge of the metropolis. 
I knew of no objection to the proposal except that my know- 
ledge of London was very limited— an objection at once 
overruled. 

“ Taking him all round, I prefer old Marsh to any man I 
ever met ; not because he gave me one of his daughters and 
half of his fortune, though that is something, but because it 
was he who removed the English scales from my eyes and 
caused me to look at the world like an American.” 

“ And is Mr Marsh dead ? ” inquired my father. 

“ Very dead,” said my uncle. “ He has been balancing a 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


1 6 

marble column on his chest in Greenwood Cemetery for three 
years or more.” 

My father and I were shocked at the levity of uncle Sam, 
and our faces must have indicated our thoughts, for aunt 
Gertrude remarked — 

“You must not mind all that my husband says. His acts 
are more Christian than his words. I cannot reform his manner, 
so must apologise for him.” 

“ Well, you see,” said uncle Sam, continuing, " too strongly 
marked Christianity spoils a man of business. I could cite 
several instances. After all, what are called honest men are 
merely thieves who lack the courage of their convictions — 
feeble folks who tremble at taking the shortest way to the 
accomplishment of their purposes. I know many a man in 
New York accounted a paragon of virtue who is as full of 
hypocrisy as ever was Holdenhurst Church on a Sunday. I 
like to deal with a man who I know will overreach me if he 
can, and who expects as much of me ; matters are simplified, 
and the trade moves quickly.” 

“ When you lived in England you had no such ideas. If I 
remember rightly, you used to read poetry, and were inclined 
to be moody and sentimental, as Ernest is now.” 

“ True ; but I am sorry to hear that your son is stricken that 
way. Look to him ; watch him. So long as he confines him- 
self to reading poetry there is some hope of him ; ’tis when he 
attempts to write poetry that you must put him into a strait- 
jacket. Let me take him with me to New York at the end 
of the summer; or, better still, take him there yourself. A 
temperature low enough to freeze Tennyson’s brook, and a 
careful daily study of market prices in Wall Street, will make 
a man of him inside of three months. What do you say to 
that, Ernest?” 

“ I don’t know what to say, uncle, only that I should very 
much like to visit America.” 

“A good answer. You shall certainly do so; and your 
father with you, I hope. We have a brown stone house on 


A FAMILY DINNER PARTY. 


1 7 


East Thirty-fourth Street, close to Fifth Avenue, and a frame 
cottage at Newport, Rhode Island, both telephonically con- 
nected with my offices in the Mills Building. We have also a 
private railroad car, which I would like you to compare with 
those rat-traps your Great Eastern Company calls carriages. 
Our chef is as good as can be found outside Delmonico’s. 
Come and stay with us, and we will feed you upon oysters, 
blue fish, canvas-back ducks, terrapin, Canadian frogs, and 
sweet potatoes, won’t we, Gertrude ? ” 

“ Of course we shall be very pleased indeed to see you, and 
will do all in our power to make you comfortable,” said my 
aunt. 

My father thanked his guests ; but I noticed that he care- 
fully avoided committing himself to either an acceptance or 
a rejection of this invitation. Before we adjourned to the 
drawing-room it was arranged that I was to devote the follow- 
ing morning to showing my aunt over the house and grounds, 
while my father and uncle discussed a certain business matter. 
We were all to meet again at luncheon, and I was afterward? 
to exhibit the documents my father and I had been at so 
much pains to bring to light. My uncle, having approved of 
these arrangements, ignited a fusee on the heel of his boot, 
and applied the flame to a cigar, from which he proceeded to 
puff clouds of smoke larger and denser than I should have 
thought was possible to produce by such means. 


IV 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Our dreams are but a reflex of our lives, 

The crude harmonics of discordant days, 

And wasted is his labour who contrives 
By visions of the night to shape his ways. 

There is a peculiar condition of mind incident to some 
persons whose correspondence is small, which induces them 
to carefully examine the envelope of a letter addressed by 
a strange hand — an indescribable fascination in speculating 
as to who the writer may be and why he has written. It 
is seldom that this self-imposed doubt lasts longer than is 
necessary to make out the writing and postmark, and then 
the letter is opened — a thing which would have been done 
by a busy or practical man at the instant of its receipt. 

Influenced by some such feeling, I delayed to open the 
copper box which I had taken from the oak chest in the 
library, though the nature of its contents strongly excited my 
curiosity. An instinctive belief that the contents were 
valuable had taken a firm hold of my imagination, though 
I could not in any degree support such belief by an appeal 
to reason. The contents of both the oak chests had 
doubtless been examined by bygone members of my family 
at least as often as the property had passed from father to 
son, and probably with greater frequency. It is true the 
chests had not been opened for a quarter of a century or so ; 
but then the lid of the copper box bore the date 
This 23d daye Oct l ' e 1671, 


DISA P POINT ME NT. 


19 

and I could not do such violence to my credulity as to suppose 
that the contents had been suffered to remain so many years 
unexamined — which made strongly against the presumption 
that they were of any value. But the strongest human 
hopes are oftenest reared upon the most unstable foundations. 
I had certainly suffered the hope to grow upon me that it 
had been reserved for me to make a valuable discovery ; and 
knowing that my chances of doing anything of the sort were 
the most shadowy conceivable, I delayed to open the box, 
contenting myself for the present by carefully examining its 
exterior. 

In this unprofitable occupation I wasted I know not how 
long, until, doubting whether I should be awake in time to 
keep the promise I had made to conduct my aunt Gertrude 
over our old house — no brief task, for it contained thirty or 
more rooms and was a maze to the uninitiated — I hurried 
to bed, and was soon in the torments of the most chaotic 
dream which has ever disturbed my brain. I beheld gorgeous 
barbaric palaces set in delightful climes ; processions of men 
magnificently apparelled, of which the principal figures dis- 
played an amazing profusion of jewels ; vast heaps of gold 
coins of strange mintage; quaint jars filled with precious stones 
which gleamed and sparkled ; and dimly lighted vaults in 
which fierce men, bearded and turbanned, were inflicting 
horrible indignities on defenceless women, strangling some 
with bows and beheading others with scimitars. These scenes 
were presented to my mind as in a phantasmagoria, the 
last appearing so intensely real in its horror that I shrieked 
at beholding it, and rushing at a hideous Old Turk, who was 
firmly grasping the hair of a kneeling girl while he swung 
his scimitar around the better to strike her neck, I awoke, 
bathed in perspiration, and was spared the sciomachic 
encounter. 

The church clock struck four, and the glow in the eastern 
sky was as yet but feeble. I was intensely relieved to find 
myself once more in my usual frame of mind, amid my usual 


20 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


surroundings. My terror vanished on opening my eyes and 
discovering my situation ; but the dream had made an impres- 
sion on my mind so deep that I could not disengage my 
thoughts from it ; neither could I in any way account for it. 
I had never been subject to oneirodynia, nor had I recently 
read or talked of oriental magnificence and barbarity. I was 
powerless either to account for the dream or to dismiss it from 
my mind. 

After pondering the matter for three hours or more I arose, 
and dressing myself with the same fastidious care as on the 
previous day — a habit which I had resolved to henceforth 
cultivate — I descended into the breakfast-room. 

My father and uncle were standing by the window engaged 
in earnest conversation, and old John was busy at his sideboard. 
My uncle at once stepped towards me and seized my hand, 
which he squeezed rather harder than I considered necessary or 
comfortable, and having wished me a good morning, informed 
me that I had been the subject of his conversation with my 
father. 

“ I am afraid you find Holdenhurst a very dull place when 
you can find nothing more interesting to talk of,” I remarked. 

“ Not at all, not at all,” said uncle Sam. “ I will tell you 
all about it before I leave.” 

‘‘Breakfast is quite ready,” said my father, “and we may 
as well have it at once, although it wants some minutes to 
eight. Mrs Truman will take her breakfast in her room.” 

At this we all three took our seats at the table. 

“ Why, Ernest, my boy, what has become of your colour ? ” 
asked uncle Sam. “ Yesterday you were a typical little 
Englishman, but this morning you appear as bloodless as a 
New York dude.” 

I related my dream. Uncle Sam laughed immoderately at 
the recital, and, pushing his chair somewhat further from the 
table, swayed himself to and fro and roared. My father’s 
face, too, wore a broad smile which merged into a laugh as I 
proceeded. 


VISA PP OINTMENT. 


21 


“ Did you read the ‘ Arabian Nights ’ just before you went to 
bed ? ” my father inquired. 

“ ‘ Arabian Nights ! ’ ” echoed uncle Sam, interrupting me 
as I was about to reply ; “ why, if he were in London, I should 
have said that he had been to the Alhambra, witnessed the 
ballet, got drunk at the bars, and been locked up for the 
night. Ha, ha ! I’d give a thousand dollars, and sup on 
pork and cucumbers for a month, if only I might dream that 
dream.” 

“ It seems to please you, Sam,” said my father. 

“ It does. If I had not become an American, I would have 
exchanged my English nationality for that of Turkey or Persia, 
my Christianity for Mohammedanism. Boundless liberty and 
absolute despotism both appeal to my taste. Besides, they are 
not so different as some people suppose ; extremes meet, you 
know. The quasi-liberty enjoyed, or the quasi-despotism 
suffered — express it which way you will — by Englishmen in 
England, would be intolerable to me. By-the-by, I’m not the 
first Truman who has renounced his native nationality, am I, 
Bob ? Didn’t that old ass of an alchemist, who spent twenty 
years of his life in trying to extract gold from everything that 
didn’t contain it, become a Turk?” 

“You mean old Roger,” said my father thoughtfully. 
“Yes, I believe he did; but he must have reverted to the 
nationality of his fathers, if not to their faith, for he lived many 
years in this house after his return from the East, and died here 
near the close of the seventeenth century.” 

“ Who was Roger Truman ? ” I asked, looking up. 

“ An ancestor of ours, who died about two centuries ago. 
He was a younger brother, who left home when he was about 
your age. After travelling for some time in the East, he 
entered the service of the Sultan of Turkey, who made him 
governor of a province. He returned to England, after an 
absence of many years, and took up his residence here, in his 
brother’s house. Very little is known about him. He survived 
his brother, but continued to live here with his nephew. He 


22 


HOL DENHURS7 HALL. 


lived the life of a recluse, spending all his days and some of 
his nights in the crypt underneath the house, where he had 
established a laboratory. He used to amuse himself with 
researches in chemistry. I believe some of his old bottles and 
things are there now.” 

It cost me some pains to conceal the great interest which 
this information had for me, and I am not quite sure that the 
earnestness of my attention was unobserved by my uncle. 
Indeed, I always felt as if that astute individual had power to 
read my thoughts, and was never quite at my ease in his 
presence. However, I adroitly changed the subject of con- 
versation ; but my thoughts were still of Roger Truman and of 
what my father had said of him, and I resolved to open the 
copper box which bore his name immediately after breakfast. 

Uncle Sam was a restless man, and would not sit at table 
for more than half an hour if he could decently avoid doing so. 
He was, of course, quite unrestrained by the presence of my 
father and me, and had therefore no sooner swallowed his 
breakfast than he rose and asked his brother if he were ready 
to accompany him on a walk round the estate; which, he 
observed, would afford a good opportunity for discussing 
certain proposals he had to make. My father agreed, and I 
retired to my room to open the copper box. 

I had no key to the box ; nor would probably a key have 
been of any use, for the lock was much corroded. By the aid 
of a strong hunting-knife and the exertion of as much force as 
I could command, I prised open the lid, and the whole of the 
contents fell out on the floor. To my great disappointment, 
an examination proved these to consist of several neatly tied 
bundles of manuscripts and a manuscript book, discoloured by 
age and of mouldy odour. While I was engaged in examining 
these papers with closer attention than they appeared to be 
worth, old John entered my room to inform me that my aunt 
was waiting in the drawing-room for me to show her over the 
house. Carelessly throwing the box and its contents into a 
drawer, I followed the servant downstairs. 



ERNEST LANDING FROM THE STEAMER IN NEW YORK, 













































































































































































































V. 


HOLDEN HURST HALL. 

An English manor house built on a hill, 

A spot where monks and friars in olden time 
Fasted and prayed and mumbled o’er their beads ; 

Or, moved by vintage in their vaults concealed, 

Scraped on their viols and sang, living at ease ; 

Where pious Christians brought their liberal gifts, 

Of which a fraction reached th’ unportioned poor. 

As soon as I reached the corridor which led from my room to 
the staircase, I perceived my aunt waiting for me on one of 
the spacious landings which mark each flight — really a room, 
and partly furnished as such, being set out with settees, and 
the walls adorned with paintings, armour, and ancient 
weapons. 

She was dressed for walking, and wore a tightly fitting 
dress, which did not reach the ground by two or three inches, 
and a large Gainsborough hat. As she stood looking out of 
the open window, her small gloved hand grasping her umbrella 
while she thoughtfully tapped her boot with the ferrule, I noted 
her well. Undoubtedly my aunt Gertrude was very beautiful. 
If features and figure of classical proportions, height somewhat 
exceeding the average, delicate complexion, and large eyes, 
capable of tender and varied expression, entitle a woman to be 
so considered, then my opinion might not be dissented from. 

She was regarding the green meadows W'hich lay at the back 
of our house — typical Suffolk meadows, intersected by a 
shallow stream fringed with willows, and dotted here and there 


i 


24 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


with red cattle — and was quite unconscious of being observed. 
In one particular only was my first impression of her changed. 
I had thought she was about thirty, but it now seemed 
impossible that she could be so old. 

My aunt was too observant of the peaceful English scene 
before her to notice my approach, and I had to call her atten- 
tion to my presence by wishing her a good morning. 

“I am quite impatient to explore your wonderful old 
house,” she said, after we had exchanged the usual formal 
greetings ; “ but pray don’t allow me to interfere with your 
ordinary daily engagements. Your uncle and I don’t return to 
London til) Monday, so there remain two more days for me at 
Holdenhurst. Another time will suit me nearly as well, if you 
are busy now.” 

“I am never busy,” I replied; “and I rarely make any 
engagements. I have very few friends, and no enemies — so 
far as I know. Nearly all my time, since I left school, has 
been passed at Holdenhurst — walking and riding about the 
place, and reading and playing to father.” 

“ What is it that you play ? ” 

“The pianoforte. I am very fond of music, and so is my 
father.” 

“ You must play for me this evening. I am a poor pianist, 
but some people think I can sing,” said aunt Gertrude. 

I replied that I should be delighted to do so. 

While this conversation was in progress we had walked as 
far as the entrance hall, which I thought was the best place 
wherein to essay my skill as showman. This hall was a large 
square apartment with floor, walls, and ceiling of dark oak. 
Opposite the great door, and distant from it about twenty feet, 
was an enormous fireplace with a chimney piece of white 
marble fantastically carved, surmounted by a portrait in oils of 
a red-faced middle-aged man clad in a leather jerkin, with collar 
of preposterous width, and a flop hat of such liberal proportions 
that an Italian peasant might have envied it, supposed to 
represent the founder of my family. He looked little enough 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


25 


like a man who would ingratiate himself with his king or any- 
body else ; but as I subsequently heard my uncle remark, it is 
probable that Henry VIII. was a better judge of women than 
men. On the right and left of the fireplace were wide staircases 
which led up to corridors. The walls were nearly covered with 
pictures, chiefly family portraits, relieved here and there by 
weapons and deers’ antlers hung in various devices. Doors 
led out of the hall into the dining-room, library, and two 
parlours or reception-rooms, and from these doors to the great 
entrance door were laid narrow strips of carpet — a highly 
necessary precaution ; for, as some people have painfully 
learned, a frozen lake is not more slippery than a polished oak 
floor. Indeed, I well remember when I was a young boy the 
amusement I derived from peeping over the banisters of the 
staircase to see my father receive his guest, the newly-appointed 
Bishop of Norwich. The Bishop was a fat man, intolerably 
ceremonious, and with an ever-present consciousness of his 
newly acquired dignity; but he was unacquainted with the 
qualities of polished oak floors. Scarcely had this divine 
crossed our threshold ere he lay on his back, brandishing his 
legs rhythmically in the air, until restored to perpendicularity 
by the united efforts of my father and old John. 

My aunt was greatly interested in the pictures, and asked 
more questions about them than I was able to answer. Nearly 
half an hour was spent examining the entrance hall, and I had 
to state plainly that at this rate of progression a day would be 
inadequate for the accomplishment of our task, and to suggest 
that we paid less attention to each object of interest. We then 
wandered into the library, carelessly turned over the old parch- 
ments which still lay on the table, and looked at the caligraphy 
and seals ; examined the covers of many books and the title 
pages of a few — treasures, all of them, such as would excite the 
admiration of the most phlegmatic of bibliographers and move 
not a few of the tribe to larceny, including a perfect first copy 
of Grafton’s Chronicle, copies of Shakespeare’s plays printed 
when their author was yet writing and acting in London, early 


2 6 


UOLDENHURST HALL, 


copies of Spenser and of most of the Elizabethan dramatists ; 
as well as many old Bibles, products of the early printing 
presses of continental Europe. 

These books, worth, as I afterwards learned, nearly as much 
money as the entire Holdenhurst estate, did not interest my 
aunt so much as I had expected, and we quitted the library 
and went into the drawing-room. 

“ What a beautiful face and how cleverly painted ! ” exclaimed 
my aunt, pausing in front of a portrait by Watts, which had the 
place of honour in our drawing-room. “I was studying it 
just before you came downstairs. Of course it is your mother. 
You are very like her, Ernest.” 

The obvious inference from my aunt’s sentence, and her use 
of my baptismal name for the first time, disconcerted me greatly. 

On many occasions had I suffered from a natural proneness 
to blushing, but surely my self-consciousness had never been 
so acute as at this moment. The blood mounted quickly to 
my face. I could feel its warmth, and realize the absurdity of 
my aspect, but was unable to think clearly ; and not knowing 
what to say, remained silent. My aunt noticed my confusion 
and further remarked — 

“ Why, I declare, you resemble her more than ever ! ” 

I think my aunt must have repented having caused me so 
much confusion \ for she suddenly turned the conversation, and 
inquired if any of my mother’s relations were living. 

I confessed my inability to answer this question positively. 
“ My grandfather was a very unfortunate man,” I said. “ He 
had a large family, but lost his wife and all his children, except 
one, before he was fifty. Disliking the home where he had 
suffered so much, about five years ago he determined to settle 
in New Zealand ; and we have the farm he used to occupy still 
waiting for a tenant. He wrote to my father to inform us of his 
safe arrival there; but he has never written since, and my 
father’s letters to him have been returned by the Post Office as 
undeliverable.” 

“ And what about his remaining child ? ” 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


2 7 


“ Oh, Annie is a few months younger than I. When she was 
about fourteen her father apprenticed her in one of the big 
drapery establishments in the West End of London, but we 
don’t know which. She didn’t go to New Zealand with her 
father. Further than that, we know nothing about her.” 

“ Then I am not your youngest aunt ? ” 

“ I don’t know, I am sure,” was my reply. 

“ I am twenty-six,” confessed aunt Gertrude. 

“ Then, if Annie is living, I have an aunt nearly seven years 
younger. As I said, she is younger than I by a few months.” 

Aunt Gertrude sighed, turned somewhat abruptly from the 
picture, and walked through the open window on to the verandah. 

The view from our verandah is probably as good as from any 
point in Suffolk distant from the coast. Accepting as truth a 
popular fallacy, some will think this is faint praise ; but those 
acquainted with the county will hardly so regard it. No part 
of England is less esteemed by English people than the eastern 
counties ; but this, like many other of our national prejudices, 
does not admit of any explanation. The absurd fact remains. 
A rolling country, highly cultivated here and there, interspersed 
with abundance of wild open spaces and woods which shelter 
immense quantities of game, with a rainfall the most moderate 
in Britain, would, it might well be supposed, attract many 
visitors — especially from London ; but it is not so, and East 
Anglia is left very much to East Anglians, particularly that part 
of it called Suffolk. 

The weather was delightful, the clear blue sky being streaked 
here and there with slowly moving white clouds, the temperature 
mild and refreshing, the sunshine brilliant — a Spring morning 
fraught with every condition to promote health and buoyancy 
of spirit. Aunt Gertrude shaded her eyes with her hand, and 
looked out towards the old abbey town. Bury St Edmund’s, 
eight miles distant, could be faintly discerned, separated from 
us by a fine stretch of undulating country. 

“ How delightfully green everything is in England ! ’ 
exclaimed my aunt enthusiastically. 


2 8 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


“ Particularly the people,” observed a voice at our back. 

The voice belonged to uncle Sam. Turning round, we saw 
that gentleman just within the room, standing in a jaunty 
attitude, his hands in his pockets, chewing the end of an 
unlighted cigar. My father was with him, and had a pair of 
field-glasses in his hand. 

This unexpected interruption appeared to annoy my aunt. 
“ You are not very complimentary to your own people,” she 
said, slightly tossing her delicately poised head. 

Her husband perceived her mood “ All right, my dear,” 
he said, in his most affable manner, as he stepped on to the 
verandah ; “ I forgot for the moment that some Americans are 
more English than the English themselves. Just let me look 
at the boundary line of this place and I am gone.” So saying, 
he took the field-glasses from my father, who remained 
within, and surveyed the prospect for a couple of minutes. 
Having completed his observation, he made no further re- 
mark, but re-entered the room and disappeared with his 
brother. 

It was not long before my aunt and I followed. We went 
through a number of rooms, some of them named after distin- 
guished guests who had occupied them long ago — Camden, 
Swift, Addison, Butler, Purcell, and others of less note — the 
lady evincing greater interest in the quaint furniture than in 
the historical associations to which I endeavoured to direct her 
attention. 

In this way did I amuse my aunt for three hours, conducting 
her at last through the clean, dry stone crypt, which formed the 
basement of the house. This crypt was very ancient, being 
the only unaltered portion of the old abbey which supplied the 
site, and in part the material, for Holdenhurst Hall. The 
stonework of the spacious arches seemed quite uninjured by 
time ; and, though they contained much lumber, there still 
remained ample room for a procession oi monks to pass 
through them. Aunt Gertrude was much interested, and 
constantly plied me with questions about the habits of the 


HOLDENHURST HALL, 29 

original ecclesiastical occupants as I preceded her through this 
strange place, lantern in hand. 

“ Why is that last arch bricked up ? ” she inquired. 

I looked at the object of her inquiry. “ I haven’t the 
remotest idea. I never noticed it before. It is rarely anybody 
comes down here,” I said. 

It was now time to prepare for luncheon, and we ascended 
the steps which led into the house. In the hall we again met 
my father and uncle. 

“Well,” asked uncle Sam. addressing his wife, “what do 
you think of the old place ? ” 

“Very interesting indeed. I have enjoyed myself im- 
mensely.” 

“I am glad to hear it,” said my father. “You must be 
very tired. Luncheon will be served in a few minutes. I 
have invited the Rev. Mr Fuller.” 

“ The devil you have ! ” exclaimed uncle Sam. “ Is he a 
good fellow ? ” 

“ The Rector of Holdenhurst Major has been my friend for 
ten years.” 

I hate parsons," said uncle Sam. 


VI. 


UNCLE SAM AND THE REV. SILAS FULLER. 

A wide experience of the ways of men 
Breeds doubt of all : but who in quietness lives 
Remote from cities, scorns the sceptic’s taunts, 

And, trusting all, is steadfast in the faith. 

My father’s intimation that he had invited the Rev. Silas 
Fuller to luncheon disturbed me. I knew Mr Fuller very well, 
and I was beginning to know my uncle a little. Two men 
differing more widely in habit and opinion it would be difficult 
to find, and I feared that a conversation between them might 
afford my father and me more embarrassment than entertain- 
ment. 

The Rector of Holdenhurst Major was a thin spare man, a 
little on the wrong side of fifty, short of stature, neat in 
appearance, formal and precise in manner and speech. The 
deference which for many years had been paid to this reverend 
gentleman by the most tractable but ignorant peasantry in 
England, had bred in him a somewhat dogmatic style. Like 
most of his class, he had married early in life, choosing for 
his wife a portionless lady about three times his own size, who, 
in lieu of dowry, had presented her lord with seven daughters 
and four sons in the most rapid succession permitted by the 
laws of Nature. The living of Holdenhurst Major was worth 
£ 220 a year in money, with a tolerable house, and five acres 
of land all told. Such were the means at the disposal of this 
clergyman of the Church of England, and with them he had to 


UNCLE SAM AND THE REV. SILAS FULLER. 3 1 

support himself, his wife, his eleven children, two servants, 
one pony, one dog, and one cat, as well as take a material 

interest in the well-being of the poor of the parish — that is 

to say, of the entire population ; for my father and the Rector 
were by very much the richest persons in the place. I 

remember also a canary, said to have been the pet of the 

eldest daughter, that was once a member of this clerical house- 
hold ; but it died — whether from the draught through the 
window, of inanition, or as prey to the hungry cat, I could 
never correctly ascertain. 

I felt that my worst fears were shortly to be realised when 
— introductions, over, seats taken, and grace said — my uncle 
opened the conversation by inquiring of Mr Fuller how business 
was looking, hastily correcting his sentence, and substituting 
“ church matters ” for “ business.” 

“ I thank you, Mr Truman,” replied the Rector, with great 
deliberation, as he slowly smoothed the puckers in his waist- 
coat with his left hand, while his right grasped the wine-glass 
which he had been about to raise to his lips when addressed ; 
“ I thank you, Mr Truman, for your very kind inquiry. It 
is very considerate of you to ask such a question. Too little 
interest is taken in the Church by persons not immediately 
connected with the Church — far too little interest. Born in 
the Church, if I may so express myself (for both my father and 
grandfather held curacies at Splashmire-on-Orwell), and myself, 

I trust, a conscientious, hard-working minister of the Church, 

I fully appreciate the comprehensiveness and importance of 
the question with which you have been so good as to favour 
me. It is only on the occasion of my visits to the Hall that 
I find myself in a situation to be so intelligently interrogated. 

I fear my answer must be somewhat different from that which 
doubtless your position in life and your proper opinions induce 
you to desire. The Church, alas ! has many enemies ; and 
among her enemies are some who should be her friends ; 
though I rejoice to inform you that we of this district are 
rather exceptionally free from such adverse influences. The 


32 


HOLDENHURST HALL, 


unprecedented depression in agriculture, however, and the 
uncertain, though certainly unchristian, procedure of one whom 
I think, without the remotest exhibition of partisanship, I may 
stigmatise as the evil genius of England, Mr Glad ” 

Mr Fuller had only proceeded thus far with his answer — the 
bare preliminary to a fifteen minutes’ discourse — when uncle 
Sam’s impatience, of which I had been watching the growth 
with alarm, reached an unbearable point, and he cried 
out — 

“Was that your pony I saw coming up the path about 
half-an-hour ago ? ” 

“ It was,” replied the Rector, much surprised at such an 
extraordinary interruption. 

“The animal seems in a very bad condition,” observed 
uncle Sam. 

“ Madcap is rather old,” said the Rev. Mr Fuller, looking 
very uncomfortable ; “ we have had him a good many years.” 

I think it must have occurred to my uncle that the subject 
of conversation which he had so unwittingly started could not 
be effectually dismissed in this unceremonious way, for after a 
brief pause, he himself re-opened it. 

“ I suppose there are not many prizes in the Church of 
England, and that the few which exist are well preserved by 
the cliques with a present grasp on them. For a professor of 
religion, if he has brains, I think, after all, Nonconformity 
offers the best field ; but for a slow man, with a taste for a 
large family and a dull life, doubtless the Church is best.” 

These words plunged my father and me into great confusion 
of mind. It is true they were spoken by one who knew little 
or nothing of the circumstances of the Rev. Mr Fuller — who 
indeed had never so much as heard of that gentleman until an 
hour before — but their effect was none the less disastrous. 
My father coughed, I choked, and aunt Gertrude asked me 
to oblige her by passing the sherry. 

“I suppose the collections in a place like this are very 
trifling,” said uncle Sam. 


UNCLE SAM AND THE REV, SILAS FULLER. 33 


“We collected jQ 8 last Harvest Thanksgiving,” answered 
the Rector. 

“ What became of the money ? ” asked my uncle. 

“ All our collections are given away in charity. The jQ 8 of 
which I spoke — the largest collection of the year — was paid 
over to the Royal Agricultural Benevolent Society.” 

“Oh, I see,” said uncle Sam. “Now this matter of collec- 
tions in churches is one of the many things which we manage 
better on the other side of the Atlantic. I am not thinking of 
Holdenhurst, for of course there is no money here to collect 
anyway ; I am thinking of New York and London. Why, I 
remember when I was a boy in England in some churches the 
collecting boxes were fixtures at each side of the door ! Could 
anything have been more absurd ? Any effect which the 
eloquent begging of the preacher had produced died away like 
the memory of a dream as one walked along the aisles, and 
the posts supporting the money boxes were passed as heed- 
lessly as the lamp-posts in the street. After that, if I 
remember rightly, the plan was to place a plateholder at each 
side of the door. This was better ; but the plan had two 
glaring defects : nothing was easier than for the people in the 
middle of the stream of passers-out to affect not to see the 
plates, neither was there any check on the doings of the plate 
holders. The next plan to be adopted, which I recollect, was 
the passing of a bag in front of each person present in church. 
This plan, though an improvement, was not without a serious 
defect. A penny, skilfully dropped into the bag, chinked as 
loudly as half-a-crown or a sovereign, and produced as good an 
effect upon the other occupants of a pew as would have been 
produced by one or other of the more valuable coins. After a 
while, plates were substituted for bags, only partly removing 
this objection ; and this, I think, is as far as you have got in 
England.” 

“How are collections taken in American churches?” 
inquired Mr Fuller, with evident interest. 

“By the envelope system. Two deacons pass round the 


34 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


Church, the first carrying a tray full of envelopes and a pencil ; 
the second, an empty tray. Each contributor places his con- 
tribution in an envelope, seals it, and writes his name on the 
outside. Deacon number two collects the filled envelopes, 
and at the next service the name of each contributor, and the 
amount of his contribution, is publicly announced, the giver of 
the largest amount first ; and so on. When there are several 
persons who each give a like amount, their names are 
announced in alphabetical order. It is a perfect plan, and I 
have unqualified admiration for the man who conceived it — he 
read human nature well. It meets all requirements, and 
nothing in it can be objected to. The man who wants to 
advertise himself is invited, as it were, to assist the Church 
equally with the simple-minded giver — for I assume that the 
motive for giving signifies nothing so long as the dollars are 
scooped. Fraud is checkmated, and it is impossible to 
exaggerate the importance of that ; for surely no one will so 
abuse his intelligence as to deny that in every congregation 
Ananias and Barabbas find more imitators than any other 
Biblical characters.” 

“ There is certainly a great deal of villainy in the world,” 
confessed Mr Fuller sadly. 

“ You would say so with greater emphasis if you were a 
member of the New York Stock Exchange,” said uncle 
Sam. 

At this stage my father made a commendable but not very 
successful effort to change the subject of conversation. Aunt 
Gertrude sat silent and neglected, and everybody in the room 
except uncle Sam appeared ill at ease. As for myself, I was 
desperately uncomfortable, and desired nothing so much as 
the termination of this memorable meal. My uncle, I knew, 
would not prolong it by one minute — that was not one of his 
faults — but the Rev. Mr Fuller, who was a miracle of slowness, 
had to be reckoned with ; and that gentleman ate as leisurely 
as he talked, which is saying a great deal. After some 
skilful fencing my father at last diverted his brother’s remarks 


UNCLE SAM AND THE REV, \ SILAS FULLER. 35 


from church affairs to decimal coinage, of which monetary 
system uncle Sam was a redoubtable champion ; and from 
that moment until he rose from the table the guns of his 
eloquence played mercilessly upon what he was pleased to call 
the absurd English chaos of fours, twelves, and twenties. 

Luncheon over, I sought to ^ate a diversion by reminding 
my uncle of his engagement to examine the Holdenhurst 
deeds. He seemed very pleased with my attention to his 
wishes, and at once followed me into the library, my father 
and the other two guests adjourning to the drawing-room. It 
was then I learned that uncle Sam had been in the library 
with my father in the morning, and had looked through some 
of the deeds. He spent the whole of the afternoon in com- 
pleting his examination of them, talking to me on various 
subjects meanwhile, and amusing me greatly with his blunt 
candour and his unsparing criticism of village communities in 
England. His strictures upon the Rev. Mr Fuller were no less 
amusing than severe, and my sides ached so much from 
continued laughter that I was much relieved when at last he 
rose and said — 

“There, my boy; I have done. Replace them carefully 
where you took them from, until I send your father a steel 
safe worthy to contain them. They are very interesting, and 
ought to be carefully preserved if only for their historical 
interest. By-the-bye, your father told me just now that he has 
invited yet another parson to dine here this evening — the 
Vicar of Holdenhurst Minor. You know him, of course.” 

I replied that I knew him very well indeed. 

“ I would rather be at war with twenty brokers for a year,” 
continued uncle Sam, “ than talk with a parson for an hour. 
In a small company it is impossible to ignore an individual 
member of it, and I could never listen to anything from a 
parson without replying to it — except in church ; and I have 
often been tempted to do so there. I am afraid I shocked 
your father somewhat at luncheon ; though, Goodness knows, I 
said nothing either untrue or unreasonable. I speak as I 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


36 

think, and hope always to do so. However, I intend to be as 
reserved as my nature will permit at dinner to-day.” 

This declaration was a distinct relief to me, though in no 
case should I have much feared a meeting between my uncle 
and the Rev. Evan Price. 

The Vicar of Holdenhurst Minor was a youthful bachelor, 
and enjoyed an income of ^90 a year. There being no 
vicarage in the parish, the reverend gentleman lodged with a 
farmer, whose two daughters made it the chief business of 
their lives to please him. Indeed, the competition among the 
female community of Holdenhurst Minor and thereabouts for 
the smiles of the Rev. Evan Price was very keen, a condition 
of affairs to which the reverend gentleman owed many 
substantial benefits. Probably no man in England was better 
provided with slippers than the Rev. Evan Price ; and there 
was a rumour that his name was recorded in the last will and 
testament of at least one wealthy old maid. The smallness of 
his income was balanced by his popularity, which was based 
upon his fine athletic appearance, his affable manner, his 
skill as a cricketer, and the brevity of his sermons. He had 
a great many friends and no enemies, and on less than a 
hundred a year contrived to live better than many another 
man with an income ten times as large. 



VII. 

CONSTANCE MARSH. 

Whose years are few his heart is light, 

His hopes mount high with easy flight, 

And future paths seem smooth and bright, 

And pleasure walks with duty ; 

Kind Nature to his wondering eyes 
Reveals her wealth in varied guise, 

Disclosing last her greatest prize — 

A youthful woman’s beauty. 

The visit of my uncle and aunt to Holdenhurst was soon 
ended. Uncle Sam tried hard to induce my father and me to 
accompany him to London for a few weeks ; but father would 
not consent to such an arrangement. Several farms on the 
estate had been for a long time without tenants, and we were 
working them ourselves by the aid of a steward. The first 
week of April had now arrived, and my father did not feel 
himself justified in leaving the place. He agreed, however, 
that I should go to London with my uncle and aunt and 
remain their guest for three weeks, it being further arranged 
that on the termination of my stay in town, I was to take my 
father’s place at Holdenhurst, while he, in his turn, visited his 
brother, that our interests in Suffolk might not be left entirely 
to the care of dependants. 

The liberality of uncle Sam astonished everybody with 
whom he came into contact during his stay in Suffolk, and it 
would exceed the limits of this chapter to recite his benefac- 
tions ; but it is essential to the purpose of these memoirs to 
refer to a few of the more remarkable. 


33 


HOLDENHVRST HALL. 


In addition to clearing off the large mortgage upon the 
Holdenhurst estate, he paid to the credit of my father’s 
banking account no less a sum than ^5000, “ for present use,” 
as he said. He advocated the laying waste of every farm in 
both the Holdenhursts and converting the entire estate into a 
large park. “ That done,” said he, “ and the Hall thoroughly 
repaired and partly refurnished, the place will be worth living 
in for six or eight weeks in each year.” 

To the first of these proposals my father declined to agree, 
whereupon uncle Sam remarked that he considered him a 
fool ; but the proposal to renovate the Hall was accepted. 
Any unfavourable impression which uncle Sam might have 
created on the mind of the Rev. Mr Fuller at their first meeting 
was speedily removed when next they met, and my uncle 
announced his intention, if permitted by his brother, of 
restoring the church of Holdenhurst Major, an ancient edifice 
much decayed. The necessary permission being at once given, 
uncle Sam said he would have the church examined by an 
ecclesiastical architect, and order the restoration to be made at 
once. “ I don’t suppose the job will cost more than ^1000 
or ^1500, ” said he; whereat Mr Fuller dropped his lower 
jaw on his white tie, aghast at the presence of a man who 
could talk so airily of such large sums of money. 

The moment of our departure having arrived, our comfort- 
able old carriage, drawn by a pair of greys, stood ready at the 
door, old John — among whose duties was numbered that of a 
coachman — sitting on the box. As uncle Sam, aunt Gertrude, 
my father, and I passed through the hall, my uncle hesitated 
and stopped. “ Where are the servants ? ” he asked ; and 
being told they were in the kitchen, he desired them to be 
called. Our entire domestic establishment, consisting of four 
women and a boy, responded to the invitation. Hastily giving 
two sovereigns to each of the women, and a half sovereign to 
the boy, he stayed not to hear their thanks, but handed his 
wife into the carriage. Uncle Sam and I followed, the driver 
cracked his whip, and the horses walked slowly down the path 


CONSTANCE MARSH. 39 

as we waved our hands to my father, who stood outside the 
house in the porch. 

It was some minutes before the Hall was lost to our view, 
and to the last moment it seemed to engage my uncle’s 
attention. “ There, Gertie,” said he, pointing to the old house 
from which we were now rapidly receding ; “ to think that it 
was a mere accident — a woman’s feeble will — that saved me 
from spending my life in that place ! ” 

I was surprised and not altogether pleased at hearing my 
home — where no effort had been spared to make our guests 
comfortable — spoken of in this contemptuous manner ; but I 
concluded from my uncle’s munificence that he was an extra- 
ordinarily rich man, accustomed to the best of everything the 
world could supply, and consequently quite out of his element 
in a Suffolk village. 

“ Don’t you think, Sam, the antiquated appearance of the old 
Hall will suffer from the repairs you are going to make?” asked 
aunt Gertrude. 

‘‘Not a bit in the world. The main structure won’t be 
interfered with.” 

“ I think I would prefer it as it is, if it were mine.” 

“•All old places have to be repaired — some of them pretty 
much and often,” said uncle Sam, selecting a cigar from his 
case. “ I don’t doubt but Queen Anne would have some 
difficulty in recognising Windsor Castle, if that lady could come 
to life again to look at it ; it is continually being patched. 
As for Westminster Abbey, I question if a handful of the 
original structure remains. A small snuff-box would contain 
the dust of all the Pharaohs. Everything substantial is 
transient and passes away. Human nature alone is unaltered 
and unalterable. Consider that parson Fuller. Two days 
ago he could hardly disguise his horror of me ; yet when I 
offered to restore Holdenhurst Church, did you notice how his 
tongue fell out of his mouth as if he wanted to lick my boots 
on the spot ? I suppose the poor devil hopes for a commission 
from the contractor, W§H, I’U see that he’s not disappointed.” 


40 


HOLDENHURST HALL, 


“ Sam, Sam, how you do talk,” said his wife reprovingly ; 
then turning to me as I sat silent with folded arms, “ I am 
afraid, Ernest, it will take you some time to understand your 
uncle. He’s awfully cynical ; but those who know him best 
like him best.” 

I forget what answer I made, but certainly I was not disposed 
to converse much. The novel experiences of the last few days, 
and speculations as to my visit to London, engrossed my 
thoughts. Though I had more than completed nineteen years 
of life, I had seen little or nothing of the world. Eleven of 
those years had been passed in a school at Bury St Edmund’s, 
with the exception of the interval between Friday night and 
Monday morning each week, which was spent at home. 
During the school holidays my father had been accustomed 
to take me with him to the seaside — Lowestoft, Yarmouth, 
Aldborough, or some other of the summer resorts on the East 
Coast — and occasionally to London. My acquaintance with 
the world being comprised within these narrow limits, and the 
present being the first occasion on which, in the ordinary 
sense of the phrase, I had left home, I was moved to con- 
templation. Particularly did I regret my defective education 
— defective because of the idleness of my nature and my 4ove 
of reading poetry and fiction. I had been well and carefully 
taught, but was never able to acquire more than a smattering 
of Latin, Greek, and French, insufficient to enable me to read 
with interest a book in any of those languages. English I had 
mastered fairly well, and developed some facility in its com- 
position ; while for music it was acknowledged that I had 
more than ordinary ability. I was painfully conscious that my 
mental equipment was a very poor one, and wondered whether 
my uncle would keep much company during his stay in 
England, what sort of people his friends were, and in what 
manner they would regard a young gentleman of such slender 
attainments as mine. 

Both my uncle and aunt endeavoured to make me talk, but 
they were not very successful in their efforts, and little more 


CONSTANCE MARSH. 


41 


was said before our carriage passed rapidly through Northgate 
Street, Bury St Edmund’s, and dashed into the station yard 
there. 

Uncle Sam was the first to alight. “ See to your aunt and 
the luggage there, Ernest,” he said, and then ran up the stairs 
three steps at a time. 

“He is always like this when we start on a journey,” 
observed aunt Gertrude, as I assisted her out of the carriage. 
“We have ten or twelve minutes to spare, and during that 
time he will despatch at least that number of telegrams. I 
have never known him to content himself so long without 
business as during his stay at your house.” 

The luggage had been labelled and put into the brake, my 
aunt and I were comfortably ensconced in opposite corners of 
the first-class compartment which had been specially reserved 
for us, and the train began to move out of the station before 
uncle Sam emerged from the telegraph office. But he was 
equal to the occasion. Jumping lightly into the carriage, he 
shut the door with a slam, and seated himself as far from us 
as possible. Begging his wife to entertain me as well as she 
could, he produced a large pocket-book and pencil, and at 
once became engrossed in some study, nor did he again open 
his lips until we reached London. 

The changeful weather — exhilarating sunshine alternating 
with gloomy clouds from which descended heavy showers of rain 
— greatly interested my aunt, who for my edification compared 
the climates of England and North America as our train sped 
through the low-lying Essex meadows. Like most Americans 
who visit England, she was uncomfortably affected by the 
chilly dampness of our climate, and visibly shivered, though 
she was enveloped in a thick wool rug. Though our acquaint- 
ance had been so brief, I had developed a very real regard for 
my youthful American aunt, whose kindly consideration and 
uniform gentleness excited my admiration. As I scrutinised 
her delicate features I noted their wistful expression, and 
experienced a feeling akin to pity for her — for I instinctively 


42 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


felt there could exist no bond of sympathy between this gentle 
lady and her husband. 

No other part of England is so depressing as the horrid 
region between Romford and Liverpool Street through which 
the Great Eastern Railway Company conveys its London- 
bound victims. Between those places the senses of sight, hear- 
ing. and smell are* grossly outraged, and when the unfortunate 
traveller finds himself once more on terra jirma , he staggers 
like one awakened from a nightmare, his limbs stiffened by the 
close packing to which they have been subjected, and his mind 
and stomach disgusted by the abominations he has seen and 
sniffed. 

It was with great relief we alighted from the train. A 
splendid carriage awaited us, into which we at once entered, 
our luggage being piled upon a cab which was to follow. 
Dark clouds had gathered in all round, and the rain de- 
scended in torrents as we drove westwards out of the city. At 
a few minutes past five p.m. — nearly four hours after we left 
Holdenhurst Hall — our carriage turned out of the main road 
into De Vere Gardens, Kensington, and drew up in front of 
my uncle’s house there. 

It was a large house, furnished as luxuriously as possible, 
illuminated throughout by electricity, though here and there 
was an oil lamp which shed a subdued light on the objects 
around. Everything in the place seemed absolutely new — as 
I have no doubt it was — and the best of its kind obtainable, 
the evidences of wealth on every hand contrasting strongly 
with my comfortable but unpretentious home in Suffolk. 

The footman had just closed the door after admitting us, 
and I was devoutly hoping that I might neither see nor be 
seen by my aunt’s sister before I had had an opportunity of 
making myself tolerably presentable — which could certainly 
not be the case with any one immediately after a seventy-five 
mile journey on the Great Eastern Railway — when the young 
lady of whom I was thinking tripped lightly down the stairs, 
and throwing her arms around my aunt, embraced Jier in a 


CONSTANCE MARSH. 


43 


manner which drove me wild with envy. The next minute, 
however, Miss Marsh was herself seized by uncle Sam, who 
held her gently but with an iron grip while he gave her 
more kisses than I had presence of mind to count. When at 
length he desisted, he pointed at me, saying, “ There, Connie, 
my pet ; I have brought you home the husband I promised 
you. What do you think of him ? Looks innocent, don’t he, 
Con ? ” Then, turning to his wife, “ Suffolk boys make the 
best husbands in the world, eh, Gertrude ? ” 

Aunt Gertrude made no reply to this question ; a shadow 
seemed to pass across her face, and she was, I though^ slightly 
annoyed by her husband’s banter. Miss Marsh gave uncle 
Sam a delightful smack on the face with her narrow little hand, 
whereat he sought to capture’her a second time; but she eluded 
his grasp and fled up the stairs, her tormentor pursuing her 
closely. The wondering footman, unused to American society, 
beheld this undignified reception with an astonished gaze, and 
then slowly preceded my aunt and me up the stairs. 

Matters went smoothly enough after this little incident. There 
were several telegrams awaiting my uncle, which engaged his 
attention and kept him quiet while my aunt introduced me to 
her sister. I found Miss Constance Marsh a charming young 
lady of about twenty, very like her sister, but of more buoyant 
spirit ; and before I had been in the house an hour we were 
conversing without restraint, my new acquaintance proving her- 
self a most congenial companion. 


NEWS FROM AUSTRALIA. 


A man ? Ay, to the ear and eye a man, 

Instinct with reason ; man born to defend 
His complement, and his assistance lend, 

Guarding with all his might a maid or wife 
From perils which beset her chequered life, 

(Too small requital for maternal pain, 

Or sister’s love, or husband’s precious gain). 

But O when lust all other sense outran 

And ranged uncurbed, then all the Man was lost ; 

Then raged the Beast and then weak woman fell. 

But as the mariner long tempest-tost 
Arrived at last in harbour safe and well 
Ponders his voyage, the spoiler counts the cost 
And thinks of her he thrust from heaven to hell.' 

• 

Time passed very quickly with me in my uncle’s house. 
Uncle Sam himself I did not see very often, and never for 
more than an hour at a time, he was so much engaged in the 
city ; and when he was at home he seemed to live in a whirl- 
wind of interviews with gentlemen, varied only by an enormous 
correspondence, written and telegraphic. My uncle’s devotion 
to his affairs did not much affect me ; at least not otherwise 
than favourably. Aunt Gertrude had brought with her to 
England introductions to nearly all the best people, the adjec- 
tive here employed being intended to convey the meaning 
which London society usually attaches to it ; and she passed 
a great part of each day calling upon, or receiving at her 
London home, a large circle of friends of high social rank. 


NEWS FROM AUSTRALIA . 


45 


On such occasions her sister and I not infrequently accom- 
panied her ; but we sometimes excused ourselves, and explored 
London on foot or went for a drive in the park instead. 

The favourable impression I had at first conceived of Miss 
Marsh deepened every day. She was quite as beautiful and 
intelligent as aunt Gertrude, while she did not appear to be 
subject to those melancholy moods I had once or twice observed 
in her sister — a circumstance which, at the time, I attributed 
to a happy union of youth and health. 

One of the first results of my daily companionship with this 
charming young lady was the opening of a train of serious 
thought* as to my prospects in life. I reflected that I was now 
nearly of full age, that I had been trained for no trade or pro- 
fession, and that my fortunes were centred in and bounded by 
an impoverished estate of £700 a year, between that and my- 
self being the life of my father — a man a little more than a 
couple of decades older than I, and who my natural affection 
induced me to hope might live for ever. The prospect 
dismayed me ; yet I could not choose but consider it when- 
ever I was alone. No definite idea of marriage had ever 
occurred to me ; but somehow, in a way I cannot explain, 
there formed in my mind an opinion that it was derogatory 
to any man to marry a woman whom he was unable to keep 
in a style at least as good as that to which she had been 
accustomed in her maiden days, even though that woman were 
herself rich. And from such thoughts as these my mind 
would wander to certain fragmentary sentences which had 
now and again inadvertently fallen from the lips of Miss 
Marsh, and from which I had calculated that her income 
was rather more than fifteen times as large as my father’s. 

Notwithstanding such disquieting considerations, I was, I 
think, happier than I had ever been before; and in conse- 
quence my days slipped away with a speed which seemed 
perfectly marvellous. 

It was Monday morning. I had been in London a week, 
and a third pail of my visit was spent. My lifelong habit of 


46 


HOLDENHURST HALL . 


rising early had not deserted me in London, and I was standing 
alone at one of the drawing-room windows admiring the 
celerity of a postman who was delivering letters at the houses 
opposite. Soon the postman crossed the road and left a large 
budget of letters at our house. I had received but one letter 
since I left Suffolk — a few lines from my father expressive of 
his satisfaction at my safe arrival in town — and I thought it 
was likely there might be something for me by this morning’s 
post. Not choosing to wait until breakfast time to satisfy my 
mind on this point, I descended to the hall , and discovered 
on the table there a large letter addressed to me in my father’s 
handwriting, which I took upstairs to my own room, and read 
as follows : — 


Holdeniiurst Hall, 

Bury St Edmund’s, April io, 18 — . 

My dear Boy, — I am truly sorry to interfere, however 
slightly, with your enjoyment in town ; but, you know, Ernest, 
you are my only confidant. As your discretion has always 
appeared quite in advance of your years, I have no hesitation 
in laying before you a matter which is occasioning me very 
great anxiety ; and in doing so I refrain from insisting upon 
the importance, at least for the present, of absolute secrecy ; 
for you must, I am sure, at once perceive the necessity for it. 
The enclosed letter from your grandfather reached me the 
day before yesterday. Read it carefully, and retain it in your 
possession until you see me. Of course, I am anxious to do 
anything in my power to help your grandfather in his trouble ; 
but what is there I can do that is of any use in the circum- 
stances ? This is what I want you to consider ; and you can 
either wite to me or return to Holdenhurst at once, if only 
for a day. I would come to London myself and talk the 
matter over with you, but, as you know, a large staff of work- 
men is at present engaged about the place, and one or other 
of us ought to be here. Poor little Annie ! My heart bleeds 
for her unfortunate father ; and I fail altogether to understand 


NEWS FROM AUSTRALIA. 


47 


the case, for to me she seemed always a most affectionate 
child. I would ask the advice of my brother how best to 
proceed were it not for his former affection for your mother, 
which disinclines me to talk with him of the Wolseys ; he is so 
much cleverer than I, and would be sure to think at once of 
what was best to be done. Don’t let this matter worry you 
overmuch, for that more than anything would increase the 
already great anxiety of your affectionate father, 

Robert Truman. 

Enclosed in the above was a letter which bore the postmark 
of Sydney, N.S.W. I recognised my grandfather’s handwriting 
at a glance, and, taking the letter from its envelope, read : — 

Sydney, New South Wales, 
4th March, 18— . 

Dear Robert, — I hope you won’t think hardly of me for 
neglecting to write to you such a long while, but I am nigh to 
being out of my mind with trouble — a condition I have to the 
present done my best to conceal from every one, especially you. 
My affairs are now at such a pass that not only is it no longer 
possible to conceal from you the particulars of the anxiety 
which is wearing my life away, but I am compelled to solicit 
your aid in respect of it. 

You must know that when, a little more than four years ago, 
I placed my only surviving child, my dear little Annie, in the 
great drapery establishment of Milliken & Burton, Oxford 
Street, London, I acted in accordance with her wishes and my 
own best judgment. Looking to the slenderness of my 
resources, the increasing unprofitableness of farming in England, 
and the insecurity of a young person dependent entirely upon 
such a life as mine, I decided that I should do well in so 
placing her ; and she went to London accordingly. All went 
well for a year, and my poor girl made good progress in her 
business. I received a letter from her regularly every week, 
and on three or four occasions when I was in London I saw 


48 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


her for an hour or so, and was satisfied as to her position. 
But one day a communication reached me from Messrs 
Milliken & Burton informing me that my daughter had left 
their service without notice or assigned reason under circum- 
stances which induced them to entertain grave fears for her 
safety. The intelligence dismayed me, and I at once prepared 
for a journey to London that I might, if possible, recover my 
daughter; but ere I could begin my journey I received a letter 
from my child, heart-breaking in its expressions of affection for 
me, yet begging me to forget her as one utterly unworthy. As 
if that were possible, and she the only one living of all my 
children ! 

In London I could learn little or nothing of my child 
beyond that she had left her situation in the manner described, 
and that she appeared well provided with money, having given 
such small possessions as she had (as well as other presents 
which she purchased) to some of the young women employed 
in the same establishment. 

You who know so well how deeply I loved my child — you 
who are also the father of an only child — will realise as perhaps 
no third person could how complete was my desolation. I 
resolved to cease my efforts to recover my child from the 
villain who has betrayed her only when my life shall cease ; and 
I accordingly left Holdenhurst as you know. I have traced 
her to Liverpool, but too late to see her — to Brighton, 
Leamington, Derby, and other places in England ; but was 
decoyed by a clever stratagem into a journey to New Zealand, 
and by another stratagem no less artful, into coming to 
Australia ; though I am now of opinion that my daughter has 
never left her country. 

Some of the circumstances attendant on the pursuit in which . 
I am engaged are so very extraordinary that I am quite baffled 
by them. Though I have been unable by any means in my 
power to discover where my daughter is, my address, wherever 
I go, is known to her, and a letter from her, fully and correctly 
addressed, reaches me regularly at intervals of about six weeks. 


NEWS FROM AUSTRALIA. 


49 


Her letters come from all parts of the world ; but I am now 
satisfied that they are sent to the places where they are posted 
merely to disguise the whereabouts of the writer, and think it 
is probable she is in England in the neighbourhood of London. 
Last year when I was ill in Wellington, New Zealand, the 
particulars of my illness were known to her, and she wrote 
to me more frequently than usual. Only once since she 
went away did she fail to write to me for three months, and 
then came a long letter, couched in terms more than usuall) 
affectionate, informing me that she had been ill but was now 
recovered ; that there was nothing she desired more than to see 
me again ; but that if she could not ask my forgiveness in the 
character of a wife, she would not ask it in the character of a 
mother. 

I am convinced that my girl is well treated, so far as is 
possible under any such arrangement as that to which she is a 
party. I forgive her the step she has taken from my very 
heart, though I regret it as keenly as any father could. Were 
I to see her or write to her I should tell her this, and use no 
word of reproach. 

And now for the aid I require from you. I have noticed 
that the letters which reach me from Annie are enclosed in 
envelopes embossed at the extreme edge of the opening, 
“ Dickenson, Maker, Richmond, Surrey.” That you may not 
fail to understand my meaning, I enclose one of the envelopes. 
From this evidence I have formed the opinion that she lives in 
Richmond or thereabouts ; and I want you, if you will, to 
institute a secret inquiry — personally, if you can conveniently 
do so — to ascertain this positively; but you must be careful 
that she does not see you, or before I could return to England 
she would be gone. Should you discover her, you might 
telegraph to me ; but if you fail to do so, a letter will serve, 
addressed Box 2847, Post Office, Sydney, N.S.W. I am 
anxious to avoid returning to England unless there is a good 
chance of achieving my object ; and this for several reasons, of 
which economy is not the least, lor I have not found it easy to 


5o 


HOLDENHURST HALL . 


travel as I have done on an income less than ^ 2 ooa year — 
though of this I make no complaint. If only I might see and 
talk with my Annie once more, I could die content. 

With every good wish for yourself and my grandson Ernest 
— who must be almost, if not quite, a man now — and assuring 
you both that I have never ceased to think of you notwith- 
standing my long silence, I remain, always yours faithfully, 

William Wolsey. 

The letter fell from my hands, and I sat for some minutes 
lost in thought. That the playmate of my childhood, she who 
had always been to me as a sister rather than the relation she 
really was, should have fallen so low, filled me with sadness ; 
while I could not but feel extreme pity for my grandfather in 
his desolation. Thoughts of the happy Saturdays in summer 
when, with little Annie for my companion, I had wandered 
through the Suffolk groves in search of nuts, or chased her 
among the neglected gravestones in Holdenhurst Church- 
yard, of her bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and happy smile, crowded 
upon my mind. And I thought, too, of the stalwart old man 
who had taught me to ride and shoot ; whom I had accom- 
panied I know not how many times to Bury market in his 
village cart, picturing him now as white-haired and bowed with 
care. 1 know not how long my reverie lasted ; but when I was 
recalled to myself by a summons to breakfast, I started up, full 
of energy, resolved to do whatever might lie in my power to 
satisfy the pathetic appeal I had just read. 

My uncle and aunt and Miss Marsh were already seated when 
I entered the breakfast-room. Uncle Sam was stirring his 
coffee vigorously, and appeared even more vivacious than 
usual. “ What ! ” he exclaimed, as I entered the door, “ one 
week in London and your country habits already lost ! Why, 
I thought you were an early riser. Come, Ernest, what have 
you to say for yourself?” 

“Only that I have been up for nearly two hours.” 


NEWS FROM AUSTRALIA. 5 1 

“Two hours!” echoed uncle Sam incredulously; “why, 
what have you been doing ? ” 

I replied that I had been reading my letters. The declaration 
mystified uncle Sam still more. He said he had himself sorted 
all the letters which had arrived, and there appeared to be none 
for me. My explanation of this. I thought, was not very pleasing 
to my uncle ; for after remarking that whatever might be the 
nature of my correspondence it did not seem very beneficial 
to me, for I looked very pale over it, he opened the Times its 
full width and said no word more during breakfast. 

“ You certainly have lost your colour this morning,” remarked 
aunt Gertrude ; “ are you quite well, Ernest ? ” 

“ Yes, I think so,” I replied ; and when the next minute 
Miss Marsh proposed that 1 should go with her for a long drive 
I had no further doubt in the matter. 


IX. 


RECALLED TO SUFFOLK. 

Most subtle power by Nature lent, 

By thy fell sway man moves or stands ; 

Thou much canst do but more prevent — 

Gold, barrier of hearts and hands ! 

As soon as breakfast was over uncle Sam left his house to go 
to Capel Court, aunt Gertrude retired to her room to attend 
to her correspondence, and Miss Marsh and I were left alone. 

“ Where shall we go this morning, Ernest ? ” asked Miss 
Marsh j “I am tired of the park, and we have driven all over 
Kensington more than once.” 

Miss Marsh had lately learned to address me as Ernest, 
which had greatly delighted me, and determined me henceforth 
to call her Constance. 

“ Wherever you please ; but if it is agreeable to you, we will 
go to Richmond. We have plenty of time,” I said, consulting 
my watch ; “ it is barely ten o’clock, and we do not lunch till 
two. I was never there, but I have often heard that Richmond 
is the most beautiful suburb of London.” 

“ By all means,” replied Miss Marsh ; “ I will order the 
carriage and get ready at once.” And she rose instantly and 
tripped lightly from the room. 

American ladies prepare their toilettes with a despatch quite 
unknown to their English sisters, though certainly with no less 
care and elaboration ; and I had only written a telegram to 
my father, acknowledging the receipt of his letter and promis- 
ing to reply to it that evening, when Miss Marsh again entered 


RECALLED TO SUFFOLK. 53 

the room, fully equipped for a drive, no button of her glove 
being left for me to fasten. 

I looked up at her with some surprise. “ You are soon 
returned,” I observed. 

“Too soon?” she asked, fixing upon me her steadfast 
eyes. 

“No, how could that be?” I said; and I drew her arm 
through mine and led her downstairs. 

“ Good morning, Mr Ernest,” exclaimed a voice belonging 
to a tall form which stood in the shadow of the hall door ; “ I 
am fortunate in not having just missed you,” and turning round 
I beheld the Rev. Evan Price. 

“ Pray don’t let my unexpected presence startle you,” con- 
tinued the Vicar of Holdenhurst Minor; “ I bring no ill news. 
Being summoned to London on business which may end in 
my appointment to the curacy of All Souls’, North Brixton, 
your father has asked me to call here to say that he would like 
you to return home at once for a day or so. He would like 
you to catch the train which leaves St Pancras at 1 1.45, and 
travel via Cambridge.” 

This information annoyed me greatly. I could not find it 
in my heart to keep away from my father when he desired my 
presence, though to forego my visit to Richmond with Miss 
Marsh was a bitter disappointment to me. For a moment I 
stood in doubt how to act. 

“ Of course you will go,” remarked Miss Marsh. 

“ I fear I must,” I replied, in a voice which but ill concealed 
my vexation ; “ but I will return to-morrow, or next day at 
latest. I am sorry to leave you in this abrupt manner, and I 
am sure my father would be the last to desire such a thing 
without very good reason for it.” 

We adjourned to the drawing-room, whither Miss Marsh 
invited Mr Price to accompany us, an invitation which he 
accepted with great promptitude and courtliness. He was a 
man of fine presence and considerable tact, gifted with the 
power of talking interminably but interestingly about everything 


54 


HOLDENHURST HALL , 


in general and nothing in particular. Indeed, nothing was 
more admired by the feminine world of the two Holdenhursts 
than the genial affability of the Rev. Evan Price. This hand- 
some and gallant cleric had not been in the house ten minutes 
before I learned that he was to have an interview with the 
Bishop of London at Fulham at three o’clock, until which 
hour he was at leisure (which being interpreted signified that 
he intended to stay until then) ; that after the said interview he 
would return to pay his respects to Mr Samuel Truman — in 
other words, that he would come back to dinner. When I 
quitted the drawing-room, leaving Mr Price and Miss Marsh 
together, I was more depressed than I had ever been before, 
and half regretted that I had not decided to remain. I felt 
like a runner who, having kept ahead of his competitors in a 
long race, faints when near the goal and sees the prize he 
regarded as his own seized by other hands. I am almost 
ashamed to record how the tears started to my eyes ; but I 
forced them back, summoned all the courage of my nature — 
not at that time very much — and after a severe mental struggle 
fell into a strange mood compounded of pride and fierceness. 

It was with some difficulty that I contrived to speak to Miss 
Marsh alone before I left ; but I succeeded in doing so, and 
again assured her of my regret at the unexpected interruption 
of our arrangements ; and I laid special emphasis on the great 
pleasure it would give me to return to Kensington at the 
earliest possible moment, at the same time desiring her to 
inform my uncle and aunt of the hasty summons I had received 
from my father. 

Miss Marsh was as gracious to me as the most exacting lover 
could expect or desire, waiving my apologies as unnecessary, 
promising to convey my message, regretting my sudden 
departure, hoping for my speedy return, and permitting me to 
retain her hand in mine longer than is customary in the 
farewells of mere friends. She also suggested that I might 
write to her if I did not return in two days ; a suggestion which 
1 assured her I would most certainly adopt, at the same 


RECALLED TO SUFFOLK. 


55 


moment resolving to do so under any circumstances. I would 
have given the world if only I might have kissed her, but I did 
not dare to do so. Uttering a final farewell, I regarded her 
with great earnestness for a few moments, then released her 
hand and hurriedly left the house. 

The course of my life seemed to have changed entirely in 
fourteen days. Never before had my mind been filled by so 
many or such conflicting ideas. Before my uncle came to 
Holdenhurst I had been idle and careless ; now my head 
ached from consideration of affairs of which I could conceive 
no satisfactory issue. One thing, however, was clear to me. 
In only a few days I had grown to love Miss Marsh with a 
devotion more intense than I had supposed my nature per- 
mitted ; and short as our acquaintance had been, I would have 
asked that lady, before obeying my father’s urgent call, to 
become my wife but for that formidable barrier between us — 
her wealth. Her eyes’ speechless messages, an occasional 
phrase or word from her lips, or, rarer still, her gentle touch, 
had assured me that my suit would accord with the dictates of her 
own heart. But my pride was as great as my love, and I felt 
strongly that I could never ask a woman of enormous wealth 
to become the wife of the portionless son of an impoverished 
squire. Without commercial training, and with no natural 
aptitude for business, there was absolutely no hope for me to 
raise myself to her social plane by any effort in my power to 
make, and in bitterness of spirit I alternately cursed her wealth 
and my poverty. Visions of the perfect happiness which might 
be mine were either of these difficulties removed served only to 
increase my depression. As my uncle’s carriage sped towards 
St Pancras, Browning’s remarkable line, 

“Money buys women,” 

kept ringing in my ears, tormenting me like an evil sprite. 
Then there was that smart young cleric, the Rev. Evan Price. 
With the Rev. Evan Price I had had very little to do, and our 
communications had always been of the most friendly character 


56 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


possible, but Heaven, how I hated him now ! and with what 
fiendish delight I was contemplating his extreme poverty when 
the thought that he was probably at the point of greatly increas- 
ing his income and of residing permanently in London 
promptly punished me for my uncharitableness, and I winced. 
In the chaos of my ideas I did not forget Annie Wolsey, the 
unfortunate playfellow of my childhood, whose youthfulness 
had always prevented me regarding her as an aunt ; nor did I 
forget my grandfather, anxious and alone, as far from home 
as could be ; nor my indulgent father, now expecting my 
return ; but I do not much doubt that these considerations 
were of a minor sort, and that the central figure in my mind 
which occasioned my cerebral disturbance was Constance 
Marsh, and no other. 

My uncle’s horses were good ones, and soon conveyed me to 
ihe Midland terminus ; but I had no time to spare. Having 
bought my ticket, I sought for an empty compartment, for I 
felt averse to staring at strangers, after the manner of English 
travellers, for three hours ; while to listen to conversation in 
which I was not interested would have been simply un- 
endurable. There being no compartment without passengers, 
I selected the one which contained the fewest — an old lady, 
attended by a young maid. In my abstraction I left my 
Gladstone bag on the platform, where, after the train was well 
in motion, it was noticed by my uncle’s groom, who contrived 
to thrust it through the window, so that it fell on the floor at 
the feet of the old lady, causing her to shriek appallingly. 

I apologised for the clumsiness of the servant, and for my 
own forgetfulness, which had caused the incident ; but despite 
all I could say, and the careful ministrations of her maid, the 
old lady continued to roll her eyes, to pant, and to utter 
strange sounds, until at last I thought she had suffered some 
serious injury. When she perceived that I was really alarmed 
the old lady recovered herself with surprising suddenness, and 
remarked that the bag had not touched her, but that it nearly 
fell on her feet, in which case it would have been impossible to 


RECALLED TO SUFFOLK . 


57 


tell what might have happened. She then requested her maid 
to hand her a certain flask. This command was more easily 
given than obeyed, for the flask, it appeared, was at the bottom 
of a closely-packed hand-portmanteau, which had to be 
emptied before the article wanted could be got at. The old 
lady scolded her maid terribly because of the delay ; and when 
the maid timidly ventured to observe that the flask had been 
the first thing to be placed in the portmanteau in accordance 
with her own repeated injunctions, went into a violent passion, 
and declared that she never had and never would allow a 
servant to answer her. When at last the flask was obtained, 
the old lady at once applied it to her lips, the odour of 
brandy pervaded the carriage, and her rubicund features 
relaxed into a smile. 

It was not long before the old lady exhibited symptoms of 
an intention to open a conversation with me ; but .1 check- 
mated her by taking from the Gladstone bag which had 
occasioned this flutter a thick folio volume of manuscript — the 
book I had found in the copper box when I was getting 
out the Holdenhurst deeds for uncle Sam. I had brought this 
book with me to London, intending to carefully examine it 
and read so much of it as was English during my stay in my 
uncle’s house. But if I could find no convenient opportunity to 
do so at Holdenhurst while uncle Sam and aunt Gertrude were 
there, it is certain I could not in London, with Miss Marsh in 
the same house engrossing all my attention ; and the book had 
not only been in my possession for nearly a fortnight without 
being opened, but had narrowly escaped Deing lost. Settling 
myself comfortably in a corne*- the carriage, I determined to 
study the volume until I arrived in Bury St Edmund’s, and 
thus keep off any advances the tyrannical old lady might 
make towards a conversation, and divert my thoughts from my 
affairs. 

The manuscript was still very damp, and great care was 
necessary in separating the leaves without tearing them. It 
appeared to be nothing more than the commonplace book of 


58 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


my ancestor Roger Trueman (for so he and others of his period 
wrote our family name). The handwriting was large and 
distinct; but the letters, though uniform, were quaint and 
peculiar— they approximated more nearly to modern than 
ancient forms. A large number of pages were devoted to 
records of chemical experiments, with notes of the results; 
and here and there a few lines in some Eastern language of 
which I was ignorant even of the name, though I guessed it 
was Turkish, from the writer having lived in Turkey. I 
examined each page in regular succession, and found that they 
were all of similar character, until I had exhausted about two 
hundred pages, or nearly a third of the book. The pages were 
now filled with close writing, unbroken by paragraphs, and the 
headline, “ Record of a Wasted Life : Roger Trueman, his 
history; written with his own hand, a.d. 1671,” absorbed my 
attention, and I became oblivious of the voluble tongue of the 
old lady lecturing her maid, and, however uninteresting it may 
be to other readers, read with absorbing interest what I copy 
in the three following chapters. 


X. 


RECORD OF A WASTED LIFE! 

ROGER TRUEMAN, HIS HISTORY; WRITTEN WITH HIS OWN 
HAND, A.D. 1671. 

November 12. — All men being at all times like to die, the 
robust no less than the sick, it falleth out that but few men are 
troubled by contemplation of that circumstance; and indeed 
I have ever noted, but more particularly among such as hold 
by the Mohammedan faith, that the inevitable is generally 
accepted with stoicism or indifference, and that death by 
natural progression hath no terrors at all. That such is my 
own case this present writing shall testify. He who hath 
exceeded the span of life allotted to man by the Psalmist ; he 
who for many years hath lived among a strange people in a 
strange land ; he who, having become a recluse, perceiveth 
now his physical and mental powers to grow feebler day by 
day ; who, hoping for nothing, feareth naught, is not tempted 
to lie. He who lies, lieth for his advantage, or for what he 
conceiveth to be such To this dictum, I will admit no 
exception — and I have had large acquaintance of men of divers 
nations and qualities, so speak knowingly. And for what 
purpose should I record of myself that which is untrue, seeing 
that my earthly course is so nearly outrun ; that certainly this 
record will go unread of any until after I am in my grave, 
and may perhaps moulder to dust ere other eyes than mine 
shall look upon it ? Should I in such circumstances wittingly 
chronicle the thing which is false, then of all lies lied by lying 
man from the first man to the latest born on earth, this record 


6 o 


HOLDENHURS 7 HALL. 


would be the farthest removed from truth ; its gross imper- 
tinence would at once astound and appal, and the Master Liar 
would pause among his angels aghast at being eclipsed by 
nis lieutenant. I write only to assist my mind in reviewing 
past experiences and not to convince any man of any matter, 
my business with men being past, and there remaining nothing 
for me to gain or lose by them. 

I was born in England in the year of Christ 1600, that year 
being the forty-first of the reign of the virgin Queen Elizabeth, in 
my brother’s house, where I at present live — which is to say, in 
the manor house of Holdenhurst, by Saint Edmund’s Bury in 
the county of Suffolk — and am the younger of the two sons of 
Christopher Trueman and Barbara, his wife. The two manors 
of Holdenhurst, bestowed on my family by the eighth Henry, 
would have supported the dignity of a baronet ; but my father, 
unlike his predecessors, sought for no public employment, and 
viewed with indifference the acquisition of the highest honours 
by men of meaner birth, living in peace and content upon his 
paternal acres at a stirring period when the fate of his country 
trembled in the balance. Both my parents having died at an 
early age, my brother succeeded to the estate, and treated me 
with extraordinary liberality, permitting me to share with him 
equally in all that he had — except the anxieties and vexations 
which accompany the possession of property, and those he 
generously kept for himself. When he took to himself a wife, 
my brother abated nothing of his kindness to me ; but I was 
deprived of much of his company. This event took place in 
1620, the twenty-fifth year of my brother’s life, and of mine the 
twentieth. 

Now it so chanced that immediately or soon after the 
marriage of my brother I conceived a very violent and all- 
absorbing passion for a certain maid, who, even at the time I 
was so seized, I could not but acknowledge possessed nothing 
uncommon in beauty, talent, or fortune. Nevertheless, for 
some reason which remains unknown to me to this day, I 
loved her with an intensity of devotion which might be 


RECORD OF A WASTED LIFE . 


61 


equalled, but could never be exceeded. My suit was well 
received ; and one day, in response to my request that she 
would become my wife, she sent me a missive, couched in 
loving terms, wherein she professed herself very willing to 
accord with my wish, subscribed “Your loving wife that is to 
be.” The messenger who brought this gratifying epistle could 
hardly have returned to her ere I received another letter from 
the same source. It ran thus, or nearly thus : “ Think of me 
no more — try to forget me. Do not write or come to me. I 
can never be your wife,” and appended was the signature of 
she whom I had preferred before all women. I knew not 
what to make of this, so paused, thinking one of us must be 
mad, and endeavouring to decide who was that one; but I 
failed. Then followed the only occasion in my life when I 
went where I had been definitely told I was not wanted. I 
sought my promised wife, found her, and talked with her; but 
she would not acquaint me with the cause of her perjury, 
contenting herself with the assertion that it must be so. I 
left her, not hating her — I could not bring myself to that — but 
with a cynical, albeit illogical, contempt for all women — con- 
tempt which I retained for many years after the intense feeling 
I once had in this matter had quite died out. Shafts propelled 
by the envious fates against the young and vigorous do not 
often probe deeply, but for the most part fall to the ground 
blunted. Not many months had elapsed ere I begun to 
consider myself fortunate in having escaped an alliance which 
I had recently contemplated with so much satisfaction, per- 
ceiving that a woman who will deceive one man will as readily 
deceive two or more men : so that when soon afterwards I 
learned of her marriage to another, my only emotion was 
sympathy for the man who had won her love — that is, suppos- 
ing that she had any love in her nature ; or, having it, suffered 
it to control her in her choice of a husband. 

But contempt for women had become ingrained with me. I 
recognised them as hygienic and maternal necessities, but 
could not regard as serious anything any woman might say ; at 


62 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


the same time holding it right and proper to employ any 
means for their subjugation to my desires. I am aware that 
my conduct was as illogical as that of the apocryphal debtor 
who robbed Peter to pay Paul ; but such it was, and it must 
be noted as well as other circumstances of my career. 

With his usual kindly solicitude for my welfare, my brother 
advised me to travel, conceiving that familiar intercourse with 
strange nations, and the view of distant cities and wonders of 
nature, was medicine suited to my malady (for I had fallen into 
a melancholy mood); and to that end gave me a thousand 
pounds, and took great pains to furnish me with letters of 
recommendation to persons of consideration abroad. The 
Earl of Arlington, whose estate lay contiguous to the Iiolden- 
hursts, was our friend, and being high in the King’s counsels, 
it was in his power to help us much. The earl generously 
lent his aid, and procured for me letters to the English 
ambassadors at Paris and Constantinople, and to the most 
considerable merchants in the principal cities of Europe, of 
which it is only necessary that I should specify one — that 
addressed to Signor Pietro Simona, shipowner, of Venice. 
Thus provided, I bade a tender farewell to my brother, and, 
taking horse, set out on my travels, unaccompanied by a 
servant. In eight days I reached Dover, having journeyed by 
way of London, quite safely and without adventure. At Dover 
I sold my horse to an innkeeper, who at first offered me a 
tenth of his value, and when I refused it threatened to carry 
me before a justice of the peace and accuse me of having 
stolen the horse. I told him he was an impudent rogue, and 
that if I had the pleasure of appearing before a justice in his 
company, I had influence in my pocket sufficient to hang him 
on the nearest gallows for so insolently aspersing the character 
of an honourable gentleman ; whereon I pulled out of a satchel 
which depended from my girdle a passport signed by King 
James, with His Majesty’s seal attached. When he looked on 
this document the innkeeper turned pale and trembled, and 
without further ado told out from a long purse as much money 


RECORD OF A WASTED LIFE. 63 

as I had asked for the horse, and withal shared with me a 
quart of choice canary at his own expense. 

After diligent inquiry I obtained an introduction to the 
captain of a barque, who designed to presently proceed to 
Calais, and he contracted to transport me to France for twenty 
shillings. It was two days before we set sail, and the barque 
was no sooner at sea than the wind proved contrary, and we 
beat about the coast of Thanet in imminent peril for a day and 
a night. I was sore sick from the turbulence of the sea, and 
almost starved ; for my inclination for food was but small, and 
the only victual aboard musty biscuit and sour wine. After 
two days of dire misery I was carried ashore, more dead than 
alive, at Dunkirque, where I recovered my wonted health very 
speedily, though I soon came near to losing it again by a surfeit 
of oysters and onions prepared for me by a fishwife of that 
town. My clothes were torn and spoiled by the bufferings I 
had sustained in the barque, so I bought me others of French 
make, which served excellently for a long time, being exceeding 
strong, though such as would denote a French mariner rather 
than an English gentleman making the grand tour. When I 
was perfectly recovered from the ill effects of my voyage I 
bought a horse and set out for Paris, spending my money with 
great economy on the way, and carefully avoiding such company 
as I judged might be dangerous for the safety of my thousand 
pounds, into which. I had dipped but sparingly as yet: and I 
doubt not my security had an additional warrant in the fact 
that I was tall and muscular, at any time prepared for combat 
with the best man in France. In this manner did I journey 
across the continent of Europe, staying many days in the fine 
cities of Rouen, Paris, Dijon, Geneva, Turin, Milan, Verona, 
and Padua, observing all that is remarkable therein ; and so at 
last came to Venice, fair city of the waters. Inasmuch as 
Venice is beautiful beyond the power of words to depict, and 
I had been travelling with but brief rests for seven months, I 
purposed living among the Venetians one whole summer at 
least ; and so indeed it fell out, as shall presently appear. 


6 4 


H0LDENHURS1 HALL. 


I had always heard that Venice was the most beautiful city 
of Italy, quite fascinating the stranger, who revelled in a 
constant succession of delightful surprises as he paced her 
stately squares and colonnades or luxuriously glided over the 
surface of her wonderful canals, with sky of unbroken azure 
above, and historic palaces around ; and so indeed I found it. 
Here, therefore, I resolved to stay until I had mastered the 
Italian tongue, of which at present I knew only inconsiderable 
fragments, picked up haphazard since I had come to Italy; 
and I rightly appreciated my want when I presented my letters 
to Signor Simona, who spake no English. French I could 
speak tolerably well before I left England, thanks to Monsieur 
Felix Lamonte, who, when I was a pupil at King Edward’s 
Grammar School, Bury St Edmund’s, impressed upon me the 
irregularities of French verbs by the regularity of his floggings, 
which were frequent and severe. Touching this Monsieur 
Lamonte, I retain to this day a vivid recollection of his skill in 
tying up birch rods (for he would use none but those he had 
made himself), of the graceful curves described by his right 
arm when he flogged any of his pupils, and of his boast that 
he could produce by six strokes a posterioral agony as exquisite 
as an English master could produce by a dozen. Though in 
bitterness of spirit I had often cursed Monsieur Lamonte, I 
had of late had cause to think more charitably of him, for he 
was a good teacher, and I now experienced the convenience of 
his lessons as much as I formerly did the inconvenience of his 
methods of imparting them. It was a great boon to me to be 
able to converse with Signor Simona, who was a good French 
scholar, which would not have been the case if I had been 
ignorant of French. 

When first I beheld Signor Pietro Simona, I was deeply 
impressed by his venerable aspect. His years then numbered 
as many as mine do now, which is to say seventy-one ; but he 
appeared much older, his vitality being sapped by his intense 
application to affairs of commerce in early manhood and 
middle age, and by stress of recent sorrow, to say nothing of 


RECORD OF A WASTED LIFE. 


65 


the natural ravages of time. Nevertheless he exhibited traces 
of a nobility of features and stature which an attenuated face 
and bowed back failed to obliterate. The moment of my 
introduction to him was a painful one, for he had just returned 
from celebrating the obsequies of his son, and his only remain- 
ing child, the young and beautiful Anita, was administering to 
her father such comfort as was possible in the circumstances. 
I had entered the presence of the old man, and presented my 
letters, before I was acquainted with his unhappy condition ; 
but so soon as I was informed of it, I sought to withdraw until 
a more fitting occasion should offer. The fair Anita, perceiving 
that my business might divert her father’s thoughts from the 
object of his grief, would not willingly suffer me to depart ; so 
I yielded to her solicitation and remained. My host was a 
man of extraordinary intelligence, delightfully frank and 
communicative, notwithstanding a quiet dignity which usually 
accompanies a combination of wealth and intellectual power. 
Of his grief he spake not, but I observed all too many evidences 
of it. After some conversation with him on general matters, 
it was easy for me to understand how this man had from 
humble beginnings risen to be the most opulent shipowner in 
Venice. When I asked his advice in respect of a house 
wherein to live during my sojourn in Venice, the old man 
regarded me with mild surprise. “ I know of no other than 
this,” he said ; “ who comes from England with credentials such 
as yours must be my guest.” These words afforded me great 
content, and in Signor Simona’s house I accordingly took up 
my abode. 

November 13. — A thorough mastery of the Latin and French 
tongues helped me greatly in acquiring the Italian speech : 
sans such equipment I doubt not I should have failed, for my 
method of learning differed greatly from what is prescribed by 
the schools. Signorina Anita Simona was my instructress, and 
her lessons occupied nearly the whole of every day. She told 
me the nar^cs of things, and corrected my errors of pronuncia- 
tion, but of grammatical rules she spake not ; I fear she had 


66 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


but scant knowledge of them herself. Though no Catholic, I 
went with her each morning to mass, which pleased her greatly, 
for she had a superstitious horror of Protestantism. And here 
I may remark upon the convenience of conforming to the 
religious prejudices of the people among whom one may be 
cast ; it is both easy and politic, and may be done by most 
travellers without strain, for but few men have settled convic- 
tions on the subject. For my part, I confess that at the period 
of which I write, and for long after, I had none at all. 

My days in Venice passed with great swiftness, as days of 
pleasure always do. Signor Simona was a merchant prince, 
and his marble palace was a storehouse of works of art brought 
by his captains from all the countries of the world. His kind- . 
ness to me was very marked, and that of his daughter yet more 
so. After many weeks of daily expeditions to examine the 
wonders of Venice, in all of which I was accompanied by the 
daughter of my host, the beautiful Anita showed in many 
ways that she had fallen in love with me ; and this circumstance 
occasioned me much disquiet. If I but talked with any other 
woman, or ventured to express admiration of a costume worn 
by one of the Dogaressa’s maids, her pearly teeth would clench 
and her dark eyes flash. It was a great difficulty, and hastened 
my departure from Venice, with strange consequences 
disastrous to herself. I would not love her in dishonourable 
fashion, for the sake of her father, my host ; nor would I marry 
her, for I had previously resolved to measure the faith of all 
women by the perfidy of one, and my unreasonable distrust 
was as yet unabated. 

When in a confidential mood (which was frequent with him), 
Signor Simona had informed me that he was owner of only 
half the vast business he conducted, his equal partner being 
one Mario Battista, a Venetian merchant who had been for 
many years located at Constantinople, where he was busied 
with affairs such as he was himself engaged with at Venice. 
It was the wish of Signor Simona to transmit a great treasure 
of money to his partner, and he was in doubt how to do so 


RECORD OF A WASTED LIFE. 


67 


with assurance of its safety. On two previous occasions when 
he had essayed to send much smaller sums to his partner, his 
captains and sailors had treacherously betrayed their trust, and 
gone off with the money to some small island in the 
Mediterranean, or to the North-West coast of Africa, and 
there become pirates ; but goods, however valuable, he had 
never lost in this way. The occasion, I thought, afforded an 
excellent opportunity for me to serve the interests of my host, 
and in so doing to reach Constantinople without expense to 
myself ; and I was besides anxious to be gone from Venice 
that I might be rid of the amorous attentions of Anita, which 
I found much difficulty in resisting. Nevertheless, for her 
father’s sake, and for no other reason, I spared her. It was in 
these circumstances that I acquainted Signor Simona with my 
intention to visit Constantinople, at the same time showing 
him my passports, and my letter of introduction to Sir Thomas 
Roe, English Ambassador to the Porte, signed by King James’s 
own hand. If he would fit out and man a frigatoon for 
Constantinople, I would, I said, gladly make the voyage therein, 
the money being packed and treated as my baggage, but none 
the less faithfully delivered by me to Signor Mario Battista 
immediately on my arrival in that city. My host was delighted 
with my offer, and that same day gave orders for a frigatoon to 
be made ready for sea, as I had suggested. He also caused 
ten chests to be made of stout ebony, lined with sheet lead 
and bound on the outside with bands of copper. Each chest 
w r as of about one cubit foot content, and into each Signor 
Simona packed with his own hands 25,000 gold sequins. 
When all the chests were filled, they were fastened with screws, 
the copper bands made fast with metal studs, and the whole 
coated with a resinous black paint, to which later was added 
my name, in white characters, upon each. 

When the design of my journey to Constantinople became 
known to Anita, she opposed it with all her wit, and exhibited 
a great wealth of artifice in her efforts to prevent it. She re- 
presented to her father how essential was a change of 


68 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


scene to one who, like himself, had lived long and worked 
hard in one place, and who was besides suffering from recent 
bereavement ; from which she argued that he would do well in 
going himself to Constantinople, more especially as she was 
capable, with my protection, of taking charge of his house and 
affairs. But finding that the old man could not be persuaded 
to undertake so perilous a voyage, she changed her tactics, 
and after some honeyed compliments concerning my honour 
and probity, endeavoured to show that it was unfair to Signor 
Battista to entrust a great treasure in which he had a half 
interest to the custody of one who was entirely unknown to 
him, and whom he (Simona) himself had known but little more 
than a hundred days, and that his merchant wisdom would be 
more apparent in devising some other and more regular means 
of getting the money to Constantinople. This advice being 
also rejected, she feigned illness, kept to her bed, and inflicted 
upon her aged father such fears for her life that he despatched 
a special courier to Padua to fetch a learned leech of that city. 
Several days passed before the leech reached Venice, and 
when he came he made but a hasty and superficial examination 
of the patient. “Your daughter,” said the leech to Signor 
Simona, “is suffering from an indeterminate languishment and 
may die at any time ; the best thing for her is a prolonged 
cruise in the Mediterranean ; by such means her life may be 
spared for many years.” When Signor Simona acquainted me 
with what the leech had prescribed for his daughter I perceived 
at once what had happened. Clearly Signorina Anita’s courier 
had sped faster than her father’s, and this was a prescription 
which had been first dictated by the patient to the prescriber. 
Matters fell out as I expected they would. A week before the 
frigatoon was ready to put to sea, Signor Simona took me aside, 
and after profuse expressions of his affection for me, said he 
had resolved to entrust me not only with his money but his 
daughter also, and straightway unfolded his desire that 
Signorina Anita should accompany me to Constantinople for 
the benefit of her health. I had expected as much, and was 


RECORD OF A WASTED LIFE. 


6g 


not surprised, though I heartily wished the Italian girl at the 
devil. To have raised any objection to the proposal would 
have savoured of an intent on my part to feloniously make off 
with a quarter of a million gold sequins, so I accepted the 
situation wuth the best grace I could command, at the same 
time resolving that so soon as I had delivered my charge to 
Signor Battista, I would send the subtle Anita back to Venice 
in her father’s frigatoon, and pursue my travels as I had 
originally planned them in England. 


XI. 


ROGER TRUEMAN : HIS RECORD CONTINUED. 

November 14. — The frigatoon Orio Malipietro was a noble 
craft, well found and in all respects fit. I went with my 
worthy host to see her while she lay in the arsenal where 
three centuries before the fumes of boiling pitch had assailed 
the nostrils of the immortal Florentine. A swarm of workmen 
were busy about her f and the arrangements for the comfort of 
her two passengers ‘surpassed anything of the kind I had seen 
or supposed possible. Two stately cabins had been specially 
constructed, one fore and one aft ; they were divided by a 
spacious general cabin, and both richly furnished with all 
things needful for comfort. The crew consisted of seventeen 
men ; that is to say, of Captain Jacopo Perugia — a fine man 
of sixty or thereabouts, who had served Signor Simona for 
forty years — and sixteen sailors. The fore cabin was assigned 
to me, the after cabin to Signorina Simona and her maid. In 
all there was accommodation for a score of souls. Signor 
Simona introduced Captain Perugia to me as a man of whose 
fidelity and good seamanship he had had frequent proofs, and 
assured me that he had voyaged so many times between 
Venice and Constantinople that he could safely navigate the 
Grecian archipelago without a chart; whereat I scrutinised 
narrowly the face and head of the captain thus appraised, and 
was satisfied that he deserved his master’s testimonial. 

Notwithstanding that its owner spared no expense, the fitting 
out of the Orio Malipietro proceeded slower than I could have 
wished, and three weeks passed before she was ready for sea. 


ROGER TRUEMAN: HIS RECORD CONTINUED. 7 1 

And here again I perceived the hand of Signorina Anita, who 
had divers women at work making clothes which she desired 
not to depart without, but could not sooner get completed. 
Signor Simona was a shrewd man, well versed in the ways of 
his kind, yet in dealing with his daughter he was but as clay 
in the hands of the potter, so great is the blindness of a fond 
parent. 

At last the day came when Captain Perugia reported to 
Signor Simona that his frigatoon lay ready to sail with the 
first favourable wind, that her cargo of merchandise was well 
and safely stored, and all his daughter’s baggage aboard. It 
w T as then that Signor Simona ordered the ten chests of sequins 
to be placed upon the floor of my cabin, where I should have 
them constantly in sight, and gave me a sealed letter for 
delivery with the chests to Signor Mario Battista of Constanti- 
nople. He commended his daughter to my care, and both 
our lives and fortunes to the protection of Holy Mary, in a 
manner so natural and affecting that but few persons could 
have witnessed the scene unmoved. As for Anita, she wept 
abundantly, and showed either great filial devotion or con- 
summate skill in acting. And the wind now serving, the Orio 
Malipietro stood out to sea. 

It was with strange emotions, not unmixed with sadness, 
that I watched the spires and campaniles of Venice wax 
dimmer and yet more dim as the swelling sails of the Orio 
Malipietro bore us south-eastward along the Adriatic, and I 
could not repress thoughts of all which had happened to me 
since I first set foot in that marvellous city, so appropriately 
called the bride of the sea. Anita noticed my abstraction, 
and, with the admirable tact which seems to pertain only to 
feminine natures, sought to dispel it by engaging me in con- 
versation. Poor Anita ! I pitied her greatly, for she had 
fixed her affections on one who had determined not to 
reciprocate them — on a man who had never so much as 
spoken to her of love ; and for him had she abandoned her 
aged father (for whom I am sure she had a real affection), and 


72 


HOLDENHURST HALL, . 


had embarked on a perilous journey under circumstances the 
most damaging to her reputation. Had I never suffered such 
treatment as befell me at the hands of a woman in England, I 
should probably have been content with this brave young 
Venetian lady for a wife, for I doubted not she was as faithful 
as she was persistent ; but my English affair still rankled in 
my heart, and my oath to Heaven never to regard any woman 
other than a minister of transient delight in whom no faith 
should be put was too recently registered to be lightly broken. 

Our progress was extremely slow, and suffered several 
interruptions; but I regretted it not, for the month was June, 
and the seas on which we sailed locked by the most beautiful 
lands in the world. Truly the ancients did well in calling the 
Mediterranean such ; it was a compliment — not an error, as 
some have affirmed. Stoppages were made at Trieste, Fiume, 
Zara, Ragusa, and other places, and sundry merchandises 
delivered to divers traders in those places who dealt in 
Venetian commodities. It was on the sixteenth day after 
our departure from Venice when we put off from Lemnos, 
and all had gone well with us in that time. Our journey 
being almost accomplished, I sat in my cabin cogitating how 
I might with the least harshness return Anita to her father ; 
for I had gathered from her discourse that she entertained the 
hope of my returning with her to Venice in the Orio Mali- 
pietro ; and that, if disappointed in that expectation, she was 
prepared to accompany me for so long as I chose to travel in 
the dominions of the Great Turk. Now I was fully deter- 
mined neither to do the one nor permit the other; but 
concerning the manner of acquainting Anita with my lesolve 
I stood in pause. Weakness is a fatal thing, and I cursed my 
folly in leaving Venice in circumstances such as to involve me 
in this dilemma, and saw clearly, now that it was too late, that 
my proper course was to have plainly told Signor Simona that 
I had no feeling for his daughter other than that of common 
friendship, and to have left Venice as I had entered it — alone. 
There is no practical use in perceiving good courses after the 


ROGER TRUEMAN: HIS RECORD CONTINUED. 73 

occasions to which they apply are past, yet to recognise one’s 
self as a fool is the first step towards wisdom ; and this I did 
very fully, albeit with much chagrin. 

Suddenly, and without any warning, my reverie was dispelled 
by the deep boom of a cannon, and the next minute Captain 
Perugia entered my cabin, very pale, but quite calm and self- 
possessed. “We are lost,” said he; “no earthly power can 
save us ; but we will die like men ; ” and with great deliberation 
he made the sign of the cross upon his forehead, and for a few 
moments his lips moved as if he were speaking, but he uttered 
no sound. “ Lost ! ” I echoed, for I was downright amazed ; 
“how lost? The ship is sound, the weather fair, and Venice 
at peace with every State.” At this moment three terrific 
cannon charges rent the air. Captain Perugia shook his head 
sadly. “ The Turk is as deceitful as Satan,” said the captain ; 
‘thou speakest truly, yet stand matters as I have said. To the 
northward ride thirty-four of his frigates in the figure of a crescent, 
and presently will they enclose us, if they do not sooner sink us 
with their guns.” “ But Venice and the Porte are at peace,” 
I reiterated. “ What of that ? ” retorted the captain warmly ; 
“it may be that the Admiral Pasha desires sport, or the 
Sultan needs Christian slaves, and no Venetian vessel within 
a hundred leagues of us to tell the tale. I have said it ; the 
Turk is more deceitful than Satan, and you may prepare 
either for immediate death or to be chained to an oar in the 
galley of the infidel. Do as you will ; I and my men elect to 
die.” He turned and again ascended to the deck. Hastily 
snatching a brace of pistols from a locker, I followed the 
captain up the companion-way, thinking of the remark of 
Signor Simona when he presented them to me, that I should 
certainly not need to use them while aboard the Orio 
Malipietro . 

On reaching the deck I saw the formidable Turkish fleet, 
distant not more than half an English mile, and disposed as 
Captain Perugia had described. The captain himself I could 
nowhere see ; but alter 1 had stood for a minute or so, gazing 


74 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


in silent wonder at the grand spectacle before me, and won- 
dering whether the Turks intended to do us any mischief or 
not, he approached me from the after - part of the vessel, 
leading Anita and her maid. Both the women appeared dazed 
with fright, but they obeyed the captain’s orders quieter and 
with greater expedition than I should have expected of them. 
The stern of a frigatoon being large and square, it affords a 
better mark for an enemy’s guns than any other part of the 
vessel, and in the captain’s judgment it was safest for the 
women to be concealed in my cabin, situated in the fore-part; 
where they were accordingly placed with all haste, and the 
door barricaded on the outside with bales of merchandise. 
These arrangements being speedily made, the captain addressed 
himself to me and his men as we stood in groups round about 
him helplessly gazing at the huge hulls of the Turkish vessels 
as they approached us ; “ Comrades and fellow-citizens ! — the 
enemy of your State and of all ChristencL-n is about to add 
to the many proofs of his treachery and cowardice. Behold, 
Venice and the Turks are at peace; ours is a small vessel, 
built for trade and not for war. And it seems that the tre- 
mendous sea strength of the Great Turk is to be debased to 
doing the work of a corsair’s galley, we being the victims ! We 
have but one brass cannon aboard, and that good for nothing 
but signalling, while the thirty-four Turks are well armed, and 
the lightest of them is three times as heavy as we. Escape is 
impossible ; but though we number only eighteen men, we can 
avoid being taken alive. Let us fight with all our strength, 
and so die, remembering that life with the Turk is worse than 
many deaths.” 

Though second to none in valour, it was but a feeble cheer 
with which the Venetian sailors greeted this speech. Had 
they been about to engage in a fair battle, none would have 
been more enthusiastic than they : but an execution excites no 
enthusiasm, especially in the victims, and such it seemed was 
to be the character of the coming encounter. 

With swelling sails and flying the Venetian flag the Orio 


ROGER TRUEMAN ; HIS RECORD C0N7 INVED. 

Malipietro kept her course. A light breeze was blowing, 
contrary for the Turks but favourable for us, so that we 
approached each other but slowly. The Turks had fired only 
four times, and our vessel had not been touched. Armed with 
pistols and cutlasses, our little band lay upon the deck close to 
the side awaiting whatever might be in store for us, and as we 
so lay I could not dismiss the hope that no harm was intended 
to us, that our alarm was ill founded ; and as minute succeeded 
minute, and still the Turk did not open fire upon us, I expressed 
my opinion to the captain, who lay at my side ; but he vouch- 
safed me no reply. 

The left horn of the crescent of Turkish ships being now 
quite close, the intention of the Turks was perceived, for the 
foremost vessel left her fellows and bore right down upon us, 
still however without firing. “ They hope to take our property 
and lives undamaged, but remember — death, not captivity.” 
These were the last words I heard this noble captain speak. 
After a few minutes of almost breathless silence the Turkish 
frigate fouled the lee side of the Orio Malipietro and, with a 
wild shout of triumph, an overwhelming force of Turkish 
sailors leaped aboard the frigatoon. And then ensued a most 
bloody hand-to-hand fight, of which, at first, the Venetians had 
much the better. Our enemies were too close upon us to 
permit of the employment of any weapon but the cutlass, but 
of that we made very effective use, for being close to the side 
of the vessel, and our whereabouts unknown to the first party 
of Turks who boarded us, they leaped as it were upon the points 
of our blades, and so suffered great loss. But the odds against 
us were as a thousand to one, and with fatal effect the Turks 
hasted to avenge the defeat of their fellows. Captain Perugia 
fell dead at my feet, his heart transfixed by the broad blade of 
a ferocious Turk whom he had partly disabled ; nearly all our 
little band were dead or dying, and above the din of the fight 
resounded the shrieks of the women imprisoned below. 

I felt faint and sick, and was besides bleeding from a wound 
in my shoulder, yet miraculously, in some way which I am unable 


;6 


HOLDENHVRST HALL. 


to describe, I contrived to back out from the fight and flee below 
to the women, whose condition was truly pitiable. I did so not 
because of cowardice, for I believe I fought as well as any man, 
Venetian or Turk, that memorable day ; and certainly from 
the moment the frigatoon was boarded I had abandoned all 
hope of escape : but the warning of the noble Perugia, “ Death, 
not captivity,” still rang in my ears, and I resolved that my 
last minute should be spent in an endeavour to save these 
unhappy creatures from so horrible a fate. I reached my cabin, 
and with a mighty effort pulled away a few of the bales so as 
to allow the door to open wide enough for me to enter sideways ; 
but I had to contend with the strength of the women within, 
who, not knowing but it was the enemy who sought ad- 
mittance, pulled the door the other way with all their might. 
As I entered the cabin, and before I could speak to its frantic 
occupants, the Turks rushed down the companion and began 
to remove the bales. I stood close by the side of the door, and 
the first who entered I laid low with a pistol-shot in his head. 
My triumph however was short, for the next instant a fearful 
blow from a mace stretched me at full length on the floor ; yet 
was I only partly stunned, being conscious of yelling Turks all 
around — of Anita and her maid being bound and carried out, 
and of my own ankles and wrists being bound in such brutal 
fashion that the blood started from my flesh. And then kind 
Nature came to my relief and I remembered no more. 

November 19. — I was never able to ascertain how long I 
remained unconscious ; but this I know full well, that when I 
came to myself again I was a prisoner aboard a Turkish frigate. 
The wound in my shoulder had been cleansed and dressed, and 
my wrists and ankles unbound; but my limbs were hugely 
swollen by the barbarous usage to which they had been sub- 
jected, and the least movement occasioned me acute pain. 
Two young Turks, hardly more than boys, sat watching me 
intently, conversing softly in their language, of which I com- 
prehended not one word. I was lying in a rudely furnished 
cabin, not unlike a dismantled gun-room, and looking around 


ROGER TRUEMAN: HIS RECORD CONTINLED. 77 


me I perceived nothing of my own ; companions, my girdle 
containing my money and papers, the Venetian merchant’s 
chests of sequins — everything was gone. The terrible incidents 
which immediately preceded my present miserable condition, 
and the horrors probably awaiting me, crowded vividly upon 
my mind ; and, exclaiming vehemently against my ill fate, I 
fell into a delirium, and so remained for I know not how long. 

When again I recovered myself, I was reposing on a pallet 
on the deck of the same frigate in charge of the same two 
young Turks, who sat cross-legged on either side and eyed me 
with an air of grave curiosity. We were close to a port the like 
of which for magnificence I had never seen. The sea was 
dotted with small crafts and rowing boats, but not more than 
two other Turkish frigates were in sight. With a heavy heart 
I observed that the vessel I was aboard held the Orio Malipietro 
in tow, and that both the masts of the frigatoon were cut away, 
and her name effaced from her prow roughly as by an adze. 
My emotions were strangely conflicting. I had lost everything 
except my life, and doubted not but it would have been better 
had I fallen like the brave Perugia ; but the face of Nature was 
glorious beyond description — pen or brush, wielded by whatever 
hand, would equally fail to depict it. On a calm sea under a 
cloudless sky we drew nearer and nearer to a beautiful city whose 
gilded minarets and domes shone resplendently in the summer 
sun. The prospect was so entrancing that as I regarded it I 
momentarily lost thought of my dreadfill plight. Approaching it 
yet nearer, a dome of enormous size and superb proportions met 
my gaze, which I thought could be no other than the Mosque 
of St Sophia in the city of Constantine. And such indeed it 
was. 



XII. 


ROGER TRUEMAN : HIS RECORD CONCLUDED. 

November 22. — Though gradually recovering from the effects 
of the terrible strain to which I had been subjected in the 
recent fight, and the cruel wounds inflicted by my captors on 
my ankles and wrists, I was still unable to help myself in any 
way. The vessel I was aboard being arrived alongside the 
quay, it was found necessary to carry me ashore, which was 
accordingly done by the same two young Turks who had 
tended me since the day of my capture. I was placed on a 
litter and securely strapped to it ; not, I believe, because of any 
fear that I should attempt to escape, but to prevent my falling 
off. These preparations made, there came to me a Turk, older 
and more handsomely dressed than the young Turks, my 
attendants, who regarded me with great attention for several 
minutes. He then stooped to where I lay bound, and, slightly 
raising my left hand, took a gold signet ring from my third finger, 
and proceeded to examine it as one would examine anything 
rare and strange. With an air of great calmness and satisfaction, 
he placed my ring on the corresponding finger of his own hand, 
and then gave an order, the purport of which I did not under- 
stand ; but one of the young Turks went away and returned 
almost immediately, carrying a piece of crimson silk. The silk 
was placed over my face, so that I could see nothing, and the 
litter upon which I lay was lifted and carried I knew not 
whither. 

It seemed a long time before my face was again uncovered, 
but I have since thought that it was perhaps not more than ten 


ROGER TRUEMAN : HIS RECORD CONCLUDED. 79 

or fifteen minutes. When next I saw the light of day, I was 
in a small square apartment, furnished as simply as the cabin 
of the Turkish frigate I had just vacated. It had but one 
window, and that long and narrow; and the wall wherein it 
was set being of great thickness, it seemed little more than a 
slit. However, it sufficed to admit the sunshine, which 
streamed in upon me with so much brilliance that it dispelled 
the despair engendered by my unhappy situation. The old 
Turk, still wearing the ring which he had taken from me, was 
present when my face was uncovered and the straps of my 
litter unloosed. I addressed him in English, French, and 
Italian ; but he returned no answer, busying himself in issuing 
orders to my attendants and some other Turks there present — 
for my benefit, as I afterwards found. A carpet of exquisite 
workmanship and colour was brought in and laid upon the 
floor, and afterwards luxurious cushions, covered with rich 
yellow silk, were placed around by the walls. On some of 
these latter was I carefully laid, and the litter on which I had 
arrived was carried away. A bowl of sherbet and a dish of 
delicious fruits were set down within my reach, my two young 
attendants took up positions near to me with their legs crossed 
upon cushions inferior to those on which I lay, the other Turks 
withdrew, and a moment after sounds reached me as of the 
door being barred on the outer side. 

In this small room, then, was I kept a close prisoner for 
many days — how many I know not, for I had lost count of 
time. I was liberally supplied with food and my wounds were 
carefully tended, so that I made rapid progress towards recovery. 
My sufferings were now chiefly mental. I wearied my brain 
in the endeavour to think why I was thus incarcerated, and what 
was intended to be done with me, but failed to satisfy myself. 
The uncertain fate of the unhappy Anita increased my anxiety ; 
but I could learn nothing, neither could I act in any way, 
my attendants being faithful to their trust, and always refusing 
to heed the interrogative signs which I made to them. When 
I was able to walk about my prison I experienced some relief 


So 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


by looking out of the window, an employment to which my 
guards had no reason to object, for I was confined on the top- 
most storey of a tall tower. The view from my prison was 
extremely beautiful. Nestling among the groves of plane and 
cypress which crown the apex of the triangular figure pre- 
sented by Constantinople, I could discern what appeared to be 
another but smaller city, very jealously immured; and from 
the extraordinary splendour of its marble and gilded kiosques, 
its pavilions, gardens, and fountains, I was sure it could be no 
other than the superb palace city called the Seraglio, the home 
of the Grand Turk himself. Every day I would stand for 
hours at my window feasting my eyes on the wealth of natural 
beauty before me. Occasionally there would be a large 
assemblage of persons within the gardens enclosed by the outer 
walls of the Seraglio, the gates would be opened, and a proces- 
sion of grandees, blazing with jewels and brightly coloured 
silks, come forth, accompanied by the music of strange instru- 
ments, the strains of which would sometimes faintly reach my 
ear ; but I was at too great a height to make out the principal 
figures in the procession, and though I guessed that on such 
occasions the Sultan was about to ride through the streets of 
his city, I did not know so positively. 

At last all trace of my bodily injuries was gone, and I enjoyed 
as good health as is possible in a young and vigorous man 
denied outdoor exercise and oppressed with anxiety. I knew 
not how long I had been in my prison, but I observed that the 
days appeared somewhat shorter than when I was first brought 
there, and that the heat of noon was less oppressive. I was 
about to assert that these facts led me to re-consider my position, 
but that would not be accurate, for its consideration was never 
for a moment absent from my mind ; yet could I in no way 
account for the treatment meted out to me, which must be, I 
thought, at once useless and expensive to my captors. One 
morning my brow was feverish from prolonged thinking of 
these things, and I was more than usually oppressed with a 
sense of my powerlessness to help myself, when I was startled by 


ROGER TRUEMAN: HIS RECORD CONCLUDED. 8 1 


the sound of my door being unbarred. I did not know the 
hour, but from the appearance of the city below I knew it was 
too early for the arrival of my guards, and the regularity of 
their attendance was a prominent feature in the maddening mon- 
otony of my life. Soon my curiosity was turned to inexpressible 
delight as a middle-aged gentleman in European dress entered 
my room and extended his right hand towards me, saying in ex- 
cellent English, “Good-morning, sir. Is your name Trueman?” 

I could not restrain my joy at hearing my native tongue 
spoken once more, more especially as the words employed were 
of a kindly sort, and the question such as caused my heart to 
beat fast in anticipation of release from my bonds. I stepped 
forward to seize the proferred hand of the Englishman (for such 
I conceived he was) with so much eagerness that he retreated 
a few paces to where my guards were now standing, and invol- 
untarily held up his arm to keep me off. “ Softly, my friend,” 
said the stranger ; “I intend you no mischief. Be seated, I 
pray you, and tell me truly and briefly how it is you come to 
be here ; ” and to inspire me with confidence he patted me 
gently on the shoulder and sat himself down on a cushion. 
Seating myself by his side, and suppressing as well as I was able 
the great excitement under which I laboured, I narrated the 
whole of my story just as I have recorded it in this volume. 
The stranger gave careful attention to my recital, at no point 
interrupting me with a question or comment, but sitting quietly 
stroking his long brown beard. When I had finished my story, 
he still remained silent for a minute or so, and then, looking 
up at me, said : 

“ I am Sir Thomas Roe, representative in this country of 
King James of England. Your passports and your letter of intro- 
duction accidentally came into my hands last night ; and you 
may thank God that it was so, for bad it fallen out otherwise 
it is impossible to say what might have become of you. The 
causes which have produced your recent experiences are quite 
clear to me. You have not been so unfortunate as in the 
circumstances might have been expected. But before I explain 


82 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


further, console yourself with the knowledge that your ten 
chests of sequins are quite safe, and so is your girdle, your 
passports, and your English money, and that you are free to 
take them when and where you choose. Know then that we 
are in the second week of September, and that less than five 
months ago Constantinople was the scene of a bloody 
revolution. The Janissaries, incensed by deferred payments, 
broke through all restraints of authority on learning that 
Sultan Othman contemplated a pilgrimage to Mecca, the 
expense of which they conceived boded ill for the satisfaction 
of their claims. This turbulent and powerful military body 
broke down the outer gates of the Seraglio, and with angry 
demonstrations demanded the heads of the Sultan’s ministers 
who had advised the sacred journey. For the moment the 
discontent of the Janissaries was appeased with fair words ; 
but the Government was in a bad way ; with an incompetent 
Sultan, dire lack of money, and but feeble support of any sort, 
it was necessary that some vigorous measures should be 
adopted. The Ulema met secretly and resolved to depose 
Sultan Othman, who was soon afterwards decoyed into one of the 
seven towers which compose this building, where he was 
strangled by an ex- Vizier assisted by three pashas. This step, 
while it effectually disposed of the pilgrimage question, raised 
other questions vastly more momentous to the State. Mustapha, 
who was Othman ’s predecessor and had himself been deposed, 
is again installed Sultan, though he cannot, I think, hold •his 
high office for long, his conduct being that of a lunatic. The 
treasury being almost empty, and money urgently needed, the 
Admiral Pasha was instructed to make reprisals on Venetian 
vessels for indignities inflicted on the faithful by Venetian 
traders at Rhodes and Cyprus. There have been no complaints 
to the Porte of any such indignities — for the reason, as I suppose, 
that no such indignities have been committed ; but the Admiral 
Pasha understood his orders in the spirit in which they were 
issued, and hence the captuie of the Venetian frigatoon in 
which you came hither. It was seen that you were not of the 


- ROGER TRUE MAR : HIS RECORD CONCLUDED. 83 

Italian race, and you and your effects were set aside for special 
consideration — a consideration delayed by the turbulence of 
the times, which engrosses the attention of all the officers of 
State. It was last night when the Grand Vizier put your 
English papers into my hands for interpretation. I perceived 
within a little what had occurred, and exercised such power as 
I have for your benefit. Your property, uninjured and 
complete, is at my house, and there it is that I would advise 
you to come and stay for the present. With regard to the 
captain who has your ring, I could by my word cause his head 
to be brought to you at once on a dish, but you have not been 
in Turkey long enough to be indifferent to the sight; and 
indeed his fault scarce merits the penalty.” 

No words can adequately express the transports of joy with 
which I drank in the generous declaration of Sir Thomas Roe. 
When I was a schoolboy at St Edmund’s Bury, I saw a thief 
standing on a gallows, his arms bound and his neck in a noose, 
with the hangman by his side ready to turn him off ; but the 
king’s pardon at that moment arriving, the halter was removed 
from his neck, his arms unbound, and he was led back to 
prison. Nothing can efface from my memory the expression 
of that man’s face while the king’s pardon was being read out 
to him, and I think I must have felt somewhat as the Suffolk 
robber felt on that occasion. My thanks, however briefly 
expressed, were very fervent, and I felt faint with pleasurable 
excitement when Sir Thomas rose to leave and bade me 
accompany him. The two young Turks who had guarded 
me threw wide the door to allow of our departure, and bowed 
to my protector so humbly that their foreheads touched the 
carpet. I would have rewarded them for the kindly treatment 
I had received at their hands ; but I had nothing wherewith 
to do so, and the opportunity passed. 

After descending a great number of steps, and threading our 
way through some paved courts not much unlike the court- 
yards of an English castle, my protector and I at last reached 
a public street, where awaited us six negroes with two fine 


8 4 


HOLDENHVRST HALL. 


horses. Sir Thomas and I having mounted the horses, they 
were led by two negroes, with a negro walking on either side of 
each rider. And in this manner we proceeded to Pera, where 
Sir Thomas Roe’s house was situate. Our progress through 
narrow streets filled with a motley crowd of petty chapmen 
strangely appareled, all pressing closely to get a view of me, 
was very slow ; but I would not if I could have hastened it, 
for the sense of liberty, the curious scene, and the conversation 
of Sir Thomas Roe were delightful to me. 

Of Anita and her maid Sir Thomas could unfortunately tell 
me nothing. The usual course, he said, with female captives 
was to submit them to the Mistress of the Harem for examina- 
tion ; and if, in the judgment of that lady, they were sufficiently 
young and beautiful for the Sultan’s use, they were received 
into his majesty’s harem, while such as failed to present the 
necessary youthfulness and beauty were sent to the slave 
market and sold. He promised to institute an inquiry 
concerning them that same day, but warned me that he was 
unable to afford them any protection in whatever circum- 
stances they might be placed, as they were neither of them 
English subjects. 

The house of Sir Thomas Roe was large, square, and low, 
with wide verandahs on every side. It was in the middle of a 
garden on the side of a hill, and overlooked the sea. The 
demesne was surrounded by a thick wall so high that the house 
could scarce be seen from the outside. We were no sooner 
entered within the gates than a swarm of slaves crowded about 
us, and our jaded horses were half led, half pulled, towards the 
house. I was about to dismount, when a stalwart negro threw 
himself upon the ground right in my way, his legs and arms 
doubled under him in curious fashion, and the surface of his 
back presented upward. Hesitating for a moment, in doubt 
what this might mean, I noticed another slave behave in a 
similar manner in front of my companion, who proceeded at 
once to dismount, using his slave as we in England use a 
stepping-stone. I copied his example, but with an ill grace, 


ROGER TRUEMAN: HIS RECORD CONCLUDED. 85 


for Sir Thomas smilingly observed, “ I perceive by many signs 
that you are newly arrived in Turkey.” 

As soon as we had refreshed ourselves with sherbet and 
fruits, Sir Thomas Roe himself conducted me to a room, where 
I saw, standing one upon other on the floor, the ten black 
chests, each bearing my name, apparently in the same state as 
when I last saw them in my cabin aboard the Orio Malipietro , 
and there also was my girdle full of money, my papers, and 
the pistols which Signor Simona had given me. 

“Mr Trueman,” said my host, “if the contents of youi 
chests had been known to your captors, I fear nothing I could 
have done would have saved them from confiscation. As it 
was, my knowledge of you was acquired barely in time to help 
you, for the public disturbances having now subsided, your 
effects would soon have been examined, with what result 
you may guess. On learning that your usage was the best 
which the Porte allows to any prisoner, I thought it prudent to 
make your property my first care, and accordingly obtained last 
night an order from the Grand Vizier that it should be placed 
in my charge, and behold it before you as I received it. 
Examine it all carefully at your leisure, for I must now to the 
Seraglio, where I will inquire concerning the two Venetian 
ladies, your fellow- voyagers, and of the Venetian merchant 
whose sequins you say these are. Meanwhile you must con- 
sider my house and servants as your own.” At these words 
my noble benefactor left me, and I proceeded to carefully 
scrutinise each chest. None of them had been tampered with 
in any way; they were all of the proper weight, and the 
resinous black paint with which each was covered had scarce 
received a scratch. My money, too, was equally safe and 
correct, nine hundred and forty-four pounds all told, showing 
that my expenditure since I left England had amounted to no 
more than fifty-six pounds. 

After an absence of several hours Sir Thomas Roe returned, 
and I perceived at once from his countenance that he bore no 
good news. “The two Venetian ladies,” said he, “you are 


86 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


not likely to see again. I have spoken with the Chief Eunuch, 
who has conferred with the Mistress of the Harem, and I 
learn that both ladies were rejected as unworthy of the Sultan, 
and sent to the slave market for sale. I have been to the 
slave market, and talked with the merchants there, and am told 
by them that the younger of the two ladies was bought by an 
old merchant from Aleppo for two hundred sequins, but that 
she protested in dumb show so pathetically against being 
parted from her mistress, the only human being near with 
whom she was able to speak, that her new owner bought the 
other lady also, for seventy-five sequins, to be the servant of 
his first purchase; and thus, both as slaves, and with their 
respective positions reversed, they have been carried away to 
Aleppo.” 

Poor Anita! I was too dazed by contemplation of her 
miserable and degraded fate to offer any remark. Sir Thomas 
Roe continued : 

“ Signor Mario Battista is dead ; he was killed a full month 
before you came to Constantinople. He had amassed a large 
fortune by trade, and being a shrewd, clever man he liberally 
fee’d an influential pasha, from whom he received in return 
intelligence of State matters. In this way the unfortunate 
Battista learned in advance of the Porte’s alleged grievance 
against the Venetians, and correctly estimating the incident, 
he closed his affairs here with as much secrecy and despatch 
as he could, and, accompanied by his wife and his two sons, 
embarked one night aboard a vessel he had purchased, taking 
with him an immense treasure of money and jewels. But his 
flight was noticed almost at once, and his means of information 
ascertained. His friend the pasha was bowstrung, Battista’s 
ship overtaken and sunk with all aboard before it had got out 
of the Bosphorus, and the treasure brought back and placed in 
the Imperial treasury, where it now is.” 

This horrible narrative dumbfounded me, and I resolved to 
get without the dominions of the Grand Turk as soon as 
conveniently might be. Apprehending that I should experi- 



\ 








* 








ROGER TRUEMAN: HIS RECORD CONCLUDED 87 

ence some difficulty in reaching Venice (for I designed to 
return to that city), I questioned Sir Thomas Roe as to the 
degree of safety enjoyed by Englishmen in Turkey; and in 
particular desired him to tell me how it came about that his 
representations were more regarded than the representations 
made by ambassadors from other countries, which appeared 
very plainly the case. 

“The Turks,” said Sir Thomas Roe, “have respected 
England since 1588. In 1587 England humiliated herself by 
asking these people to aid her in repelling invasion. The 
Turk, who is nothing if not selfish, of course refused, and 
Elizabeth’s envoys succeeded only in impressing the Porte with 
an idea of England’s impotency. But when in 1588 England 
single-handed scattered and destroyed the whole might of Spain, 
it was noted here, as indeed it was throughout the world, that 
the islanders of northern Europe are not only keen in trade, 
but quick to avenge and formidable in fight, accustomed withal 
to speak the truth and stand for their rights against whatever 
odds. Your Turk, I say, noted these things, and the benefit 
to Englishmen has been that to this day their ships ride in the 
Bosphorus as securely as in their own narrow seas. That it is 
not so with the ships of weaker States you yourself can 
witness.” 

For many days I continued to reside in the house of Sir 
Thomas Roe, not going abroad further than the boundaries 
of the gardens which encompassed it. My host was a delight- 
ful companion, as full of information as an egg is of meat, yet 
withal singularly modest in his manner of imparting it. By 
his advice I not only delayed my departure for Venice, but 
refrained from walking about the city, and I was the more 
content to follow his counsel when I considered the pain 
which intelligence of the ill-fated Orio Malipietro and her 
passengers would inflict on Signor Simona ; and so I rested 
myself, filling my mind from the rich stores of knowledge 
possessed by my host, and making under his able guidance 
rapid progress towards a mastery of the Turkish tongue. 


88 


HOLDENHVRST HALL. 


But the time soon came when I could no longer suppress 
my desire to explore the streets of Constantinople, and observe 
the manners and customs of the people, and I intimated as 
much to my host in the choicest Turkish I could command. 
My host no further opposed my desire, but merely advised me 
to adopt the dress of a Turk, and never to stir abroad unless 
accompanied by at least two stout slaves ; suggestions which I 
very willingly adopted, though at first I found the loose flowing 
garments of the Ottomans excessively inconvenient, and could 
not then have believed that I should for twenty-eight years 
clothe myself in no other way. 

The health of Sir Thomas Roe was not robust, and it was 
always his custom after a spell of sickness to talk of his return 
to England, a change which he contemplated with pleasure. 
He had no regular assistance in the duties of his office, which 
at times pressed heavily upon him, so that when I volunteered 
to assist in the preparation of his despatches to King James 
my offer was gratefully accepted. And thus the winter of 

1622 passed away, the spring of 1623 advanced, and still my 
daily life remained unaltered ; but I had meanwhile acquired 
the language of the Turks, and that too with little trouble, for 
it presents but few difficulties to an earnest student. In June 

1623 intelligence reached Sir Thomas Roe, in answer to 
inquiries which he had instituted at my instigation, that Signor 
Pietro Simona was dead, that the good old Venetian merchant 
had died in the belief that all who sailed from Venice in the 
Orio Malipietro had perished. There remained nothing now to 
attract me to that city, and abandoning my intention to revisit 
it, I continued to live with Sir Thomas Roe. 

The stirring events which occurred just previous to my entry 
into Constantinople were eclipsed by the momentous changes in 
the Turkish Government which took place in the summer and 
autumn of 1623. Sultan Mustapha having by the absurdity of 
his acts convinced everybody of his insanity, he was again 
deposed, and a young boy, scarce twelve years old, set in his 
place as Amurath IV. I saw the youthful Amurath for the 


ROGER TRUEMAN: HIS RECORD CONCLUDED. 89 

first time on the day his high dignity was conferred upon him, 
and thought he was an exceptionally handsome boy. Certainly 
I perceived nothing in his clear-cut features, his aquiline nose, 
his full, lustrous, dark eyes, which denoted in any degree the 
fierce, bloody, and remorseless tyrant he afterwards became. 
Being too young to rule though not to reign, all power reposed 
in Mahpeiker, mother of the Sultan. Mahpeiker was a clever 
woman, sincerely desirous, I believe, of the happiness of her 
son, and of the stability and prosperity of the State ; and to 
secure those objects she scrupled not. to seek the advice of Sir 
Thomas Roe — conduct which gave mortal offence to the 
Grand Vizier and other high officers of state, and tended not 
to the security of the Englishman thus honoured. The 
difficulties with which the Sultana-mother had to contend were 
numerous and great, for the lunatic Mustapha and a host of 
parasitical pashas who surrounded him had depleted the 
treasury, and suffered the defences of the country to fall into 
decay. 

Sir Thomas Roe having recommended me for various public 
employments, his recommendations were adopted. I under- 
took the tasks, and acquitted myself with so much satisfaction 
to the Court that other commissions were. given to me without 
any suggestion by my friend, my success being due not to any 
exceptional ability in me, but simply to honesty — a quality 
rarely found in a Turkish official, nor expected in more than a 
minor degree. 

Early in 1625, the health of Sir Thomas Roe was such that 
it determined him to return home, and arrangements were 
made for Sir Thomas Philips to represent England at the 
Porte. In three years I had grown accustomed to life in 
Turkey, which was not at all distasteful to me. During the 
minority of Amurath IV,, my services were frequently requisi- 
tioned by M ahpeiker and her advisers in drafting despatches to 
foreign natipns, my services being rewarded with magnificent 
presents. I visited the Seraglio when I would, and on two 
occasions was examined by the assembled Ulema as to the 


90 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


respective military strength of the nations of Europe. The ten 
chests of Venetian sequins remained unbroached, and my 
English money was not decreased by one penny. I had 
purchased numerous slaves of both sexes, and indulged myself 
as unrestrainedly as any pasha in the empire ; yet notwith- 
standing all my expense I waxed richer and richer, and my 
personal influence increased daily. Such being my condition 
in 1625, it will be small wonder that I was disinclined to 
return to England with Sir Thomas Roe, more especially as at 
that very time the Grand Vizier, in the name of Mahpeiker 
and the Ulema, offered me the distinguished position of 
Governor of the Vilayet of Trebizond — which, as all men know, 
is an important province and port on the Black Sea coast — 
stipulating only that I should embrace the Mussulman faith. 
I was but twenty-five years old, and the prospect of being king 
in everything but name of a large and beautiful province was 
too flattering to resist, and I accepted the position with its 
accompanying condition, much to the disgust of Sir Thomas 
Roe, whose friendship for me declined from that hour. A few 
days later my noble friend sailed for England, and the last 
words I heard him speak informed me that he had hoped for 
better things of me than had appeared. At this distance of 
time it is easy to perceive in whom lay the fault which wrought 
this estrangement ; and this incident is one of many which 
make a retrospect of my life very melancholy for me. 

In delivering to me the warrant for my office, the Grand 
Vizier, a crafty old Turk with a long white beard and a 
magnificent but deceptive eye, complimented me on my 
honesty and truthfulness, to which qualities, he said, I owed 
my appointment, inasmuch as the Sultana-Mother had been 
very favourably impressed therewith, though, for his part, he 
thought these were virtues which might be carried too far. 
Honesty, he further observed, was in itself a commendable 
thing, and sometimes worked well (as in my own case, where it 
had gained for me this valuable appointment), yet it might not 
be lost sight of that the tribute from Trebizond must at least 


ROGER TRUEMAN: HIS RECORD CONCLUDED. 9 1 

be maintained if not increased, and that the goodwill of himself 
and some of his brother officers was only to be retained by 
gifts. With regard to truth he could not speak so favourably 
— that it was frequently inexpedient to employ it was the daily 
experience of all men, but carefulness on occasions when its 
use was dispensed with was doubtless needful. “ Lie with 
sufficient circumstance to ensure belief,” said this consummate 
deceiver, “ yet with not so much circumstance that the forgettal 
thereof shall embarrass thee on another occasion. In this lies 
the whole art of lying.” Thus admonished, and with an over- 
powering sense of my newly acquired dignity, I set out for 
Trebizond accompanied by a numerous retinue. 

The city and province over which I was appointed to rule 
had been deplorably ill governed from time immemorial. The 
people had been harried and plundered by an unbroken 
succession of incompetent despots, and no man’s life or 
property was secure. Before I set foot in Trebizond, I had 
resolved to use the unlimited power entrusted to me in reform- 
ing any abuses which I might find prevailing there. Having 
taken up my abode in an ancient castle which faced the sea 
and stood just without the city walls, I addressed the chief 
men of the city who had gathered to receive me, and occasioned 
them much consternation by announcing my intention of living 
as simply and frugally as possible, of administering impartial 
justice between man and man irrespective of rank, office, or 
wealth, and of my willingness to hear personally all cases in 
which suitors for justice could show reasonable cause for 
appeal against the judgment of the cadis. “ The authority,” I 
said, “ delegated to me by the Commander of the Faithful, to 
inflict death on any inhabitant of this province who shall incur 
my displeasure, I will never exercise except to punish the evil 
doer whose deeds in the judgment of all men shall merit that 
penalty. The annual tri f * 1 te of Trebizond fixed by the Sultan s 
advisers is a heavy one — heavier, I fear, than you can pay 
without hardship. Nevertheless, it must be paid, punctually 
and fully; but I hope by the laws I will enact and the 


92 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


impartiality of my rule soon to lighten your burdens, to which 
end I will direct all the energy of my nature, confident of 
success if only your present protestations of loyalty be sincere.” 

The domestic establishment of my predecessor (who— 
marvellous in a Turkish pasha !— had died a natural death) 
was large, expensive, and mostly useless ; so I deemed it a 
fitting subject for a first experiment with my reforming hand. 
I reduced it by four-fifths, and reconstructed the remainder on 
a system which I had devised myself — abolished the office of 
purse-bearer, personally controlled the treasury, and kept a 
sleepless eye on accounts rendered to me by my subordinates. 
Verily the ways of reformers are hard, and the opposition of 
those whom it is sought to benefit is too great to measure. At 
first my rule was as unpopular with the people as that of any 
of my predecessors had been, which is saying much; but I 
lived . it down, and in a few years converted hatred into toler- 
ance, which yet later was changed to esteem when it was seen 
and felt that I scrupulously adhered to my original declaration. 
Trebizond prospered enormously under my rule, and in ten 
years had become one of the wealthiest and most peaceful 
vilayets in the empire, whereas before it had been one of the 
poorest and most turbulent. Mahpeiker’s Grand Vizier, who, 
true to the traditions of his race and office, had fixed the 
tribute of Trebizond at ten times as much as had ever before 
been wrung from that province, was astounded to receive from 
me the sum he had demanded, and was at a stand to know 
how I had accomplished so wonderful a feat. In his dilemma 
the Vizier resorted to the Court Astrologer from whom, after 
narrating the circumstances, he asked for enlightenment. 
After practising divers fooleries with an astrolabe the astrologer 
informed the Vizier that the Beardless Pasha of Trebizond had 
discovered a gold mine, an announcement which so powerfully 
excited the cupidity of the Vizier that he undertook a journey 
to Trebizond to ascertain whether it was really so or not. 
With great difficulty I proved to this vile wretch that his 
credulity had been abused — that my success was due merely o 


ROGER TRUEMAN: HIS RECORD CONCLUDED . 93 

my acting directly contrary to his advice ; and he returned to 
Constantinople, disappointed and disconcerted. But during 
his absence from the capital a faction had been formed against 
him, his peculations had been exposed, and in a passage lead- 
ing to the Seraglio he was met by the Seven Mutes and there 
unceremoniously strangled. * 

Years came and passed away, and many were the changes in 
the government of Turkey. In 1632 Amurath, at that time a 
youth of twenty, assumed full power and ruled his empire with 
a rigorous despotism which has never been exceeded in the 
history of the world. Fortunately for his people, Amurath was 
a man of great capacity. Though himself inconceivably cruel, 
he was politic enough not to permit overmuch tyranny in others. 
His Majesty professed great regard for me, and did me the 
honour and his people the benefit to enact for his whole empire 
some salutary laws which I had enforced with advantage at 
Trebizond. My position was assured by the mandate of the 
Sultan and the loyalty of the people, my status that of a depend- 
ent prince, my wealth greater than that of any other pasha in 
the empire, and my harem unsurpassed by that of the Sultan, 
being peopled by the beauties of my province, fair-haired girls 
from Circassia and Georgia, and an Anatolian maid of surpass- 
ing loveliness whom the Sultana Mahpeiker had given to me. 

And thus circumstanced did I live on. In 1640 the Sultan 
died of a fever, accelerated by terror at an eclipse of the sun, 
and was succeeded by his brother Ibrahim, 

A man 

Snail slow in action, dull of apprehension, 

Rich in delay and doubt, confusing all things, 

whose milder cemper, though appreciated by the people with 
whom he was in immediate touch, soon effaced the good effects 
of Amurath’s iron discipline. Ibrahim reigned but eight years, 
and the power and wealth of Turkey dwindled so marvellously 
under his rule that to save the empire from disintegration the 
Mufti agreed upon an edict to extinguish this feeble-minded 
voluptuary; and he was accordingly bowstrung, and his son, 


94 


HO L DENHURS 7 HALL. 


the present Sultan Mahomet IV., then a child of seven, set in 
his place. 

The regicide of 1648 failed entirely of its object, and the 
people of Turkey were plunged into yet greater misery by the 
deadly rivalry for supreme influence which ensued between the 
Sultanas Mahpeiker and Tarkhan, grandmother and mother of 
the infant Sultan Mahomet. The feud was maintained with 
the utmost bitterness, and each of the principals attracted to 
herself a faction of pashas. The Turkish treasury, always the 
prey of Court officials, was soon emptied by the host of thieves 
who saw in this division an opportunity to enrich themselves ; 
and poverty and disaffection prevailed in the land. Demands for 
money from my province became larger and more frequent, until 
at last they could no longer be met. In a vigorous remonstrance 
to Sultana Mahpeiker and her advisers, I reviewed my conduct 
during the whole term of my pashalic, insisting upon the 
impossibility of increasing the tribute from Trebizond, and 
requesting permission to resign my office. My report did not 
reach Constantinople until a few days after the death of 
Mahpeiker, who had been assassinated by a partisan of Tarkhan. 
About the time this intelligence was brought to me, my son by 
my beautiful Anatolian — a charming boy of fifteen, the delight 
and hope of my life — succumbed to malaria, and I determined 
to return to England. 

The corrupt cabal then ruling at Constantinople would, I was 
sure, oppose my departure from Trebizond, for a like reason 
and probably by similar means that Signor Battista’s departure 
from Constantinople was opposed in 1622. Of this I had no 
doubt, and I ordered my conduct accordingly, escaping in a 
Muscovite merchant ship to Taganrog, whence I travelled 
slowly, and with no incident worth the telling, to London, 
arriving in the latter city on Christmas eve in the year 1651, 
bringing with me a goodly store of Turkish money and jewels, 
and the ten chests of sequins just as they were packed by 
Signor Simona twenty-nine years before, and as they remain 
even to this day. 


ROGER TRUEMAN : HIS RECORD CONCLUDED. 95 

December 3. — I am disposed to think there are very few men 
who can look back upon a long life with unmixed satisfaction, 
but I hope the larger number of men are more happily circum- 
stanced in this respect than the old man who pens this record. 
There remains but little for me to tell, and I am weary of 
writing about myself. At Hpldenhurst I found my brother 
Mathew alive and happy in the companionship of his wife and 
sons and daughters, as, thank God, he is to-day. And now 
twenty years have passed since I returned to England, all of 
which (except a brief and fruitless visit which I made to Venice 
in 1660 to discover the heirs of Signor Pietro Simona) have 
been passed in this quiet English village where I was born. 
The alchemical investigations with which I have occupied my 
leisure have failed to yield the results I had hoped for, and my 
only wish now is that my life (which by many signs I know is 
now surely tending to its close) may be prolonged sufficiently 
to allow me to found a hospital for the poor of St Edmund’s 
Bury with the Venetian sequins which for safety have lain so 
many years immured in the Abbot’s Cell beneath this house. 
Is it too much to pray for, that my Maker shall regard the 
charitable act I contemplate as some slight atonement for my 
bitterly repented renunciation of the faith of my fathers and of 
the riotous excesses of my youth and middle age? Truly do I 
now well perceive that Lust is a flame which rages fiercely and 
expires, while Love endures for ever and is clothed with immortal 
vouth. Roger Trueman. 




XIII. 

UNREST. 

When Hope and Expectation keen arise, 

Then Folly reigns and sober Wisdom dies. 

The conflicting emotions aroused by the perusal of my 
ancestor’s Record, but more particularly, I think, by the keen 
hope of the existence of the treasure where it had been stored 
by Roger Trueman, and the possibilities which its recovery and 
possession presented to my mind, were beyond the strength of 
my nature to endure. The heavy volume fell from my hands 
to the floor, and I involuntarily rested against the side of the 
carriage, while a feeling of deadly faintness came over me, 
though I did not lose consciousness. Without doubt my aspect 
presented all the signs of sudden illness, or the comedy which 
immediately ensued could not be accounted for. 

“Janet,” screamed the old lady, “ the flask, the flask ! Don’t 
you see the gentleman has fainted ? Quick ! What a stupid 
girt you are ! ” and the next moment that awful gorgon had me 
fixed in a corner, where she frantically endeavoured to thrust 
the neck of her nauseous flask into my mouth. I offered what 
resistance I could, but my efforts were as nothing opposed to 
the strength of my tormentor, who persisted in her purpose, her 
tongue running with great volubility while she saturated my 
shirt front with brandy. “ This is what comes of reading novels. 
God bless us all, look at the size of that one ! How thankful I 
am that I never allowed my sainted William to see any such 
devices of Satan ! Janet, throw that horrid book out of the 
window.” 


VNAEST. 


§7 


The natural hesitation of the young lady addressed to deal 
in such summary fashion with another person’s property 
averted the threatened calamity, and afforded me an oppor 
tunity to grasp my volume, fear of its loss having inspired me 
with strength for the effort. 

“Well, well, keep it, if you must,” the old lady continued; 
“ but it would have been no great loss any way ; you could 
have got another at the next station. All novels are alike ; 
though, I must say, that is an extra large one. Ah, if my poor 
dear boy were alive, he would be just about your age, and, oh, 
how like you he was ! Everybody said what a sweet face my 
William had — just like a girl’s. He was a good boy.” Here 
the old lady, being overcome with emotion, resumed her seat, 
by which circumstance I was enabled to breathe once more, 
having learned that it is neither pleasant nor judicious when in 
a fainting condition to be projected against a fat individual 
enveloped in a vast quantity of crape. The collapse of my 
fellow-passenger was the signal for my recovery. 

It was with much satisfaction that I perceived we had nearly 
arrived at Cambridge, where I was to change trains. It had 
transpired in some remarks to her maid that my troublesome 
fellow-passenger was also going to Bury St Edmund’s ; but I 
resolved to avoid her companionship for the second part of my 
journey by taking a seat in a smoking compartment ; and with 
my precious volume safely stowed in my bag, on the handle of 
which I kept my hand, I sat looking out of the window ready 
to alight the moment we entered the station. 

The old lady must have divined my intention to flee from 
her at the earliest possible moment, for, though she did not 
cease to talk, she now assumed a somewhat quieter manner, 
confining her remarks to what she was pleased to consider 
my wonderful resemblance to her dear boy in heaven, and 
inviting me to visit her at my earliest convenience that she might 
have the pleasure of gazing on my features, to which end she 
presented me with her card — 


9S 


tIOLDENH URS 7 HALL. 


Mrs ANDREW BUTTERWELL, 

KINGSTHORPE GRANGE, 
CHEVINGTON, 

BURY ST EDMUND’S. 


I took the card, and, having glanced at it, put it in my pocket- 
book, at the same time resolving to most carefully avoid 
Chevington and its neighbourhood. 

The short journey from Cambridge to Bury passed without 
incident. I tried hard to dispassionately consider the facts 
which my ancestor’s Record had so opportunely revealed — to 
digest them and to weigh the chances for and against the 
treasure having been long ago found and appropriated ; but 
my mental balance was too greatly disturbed for the task, and 
besides, thoughts of the living treasure which I might fearlessly 
claim were I but possessed of those long immured Venetian 
sequins obtruded themselves and prevented me resolving upon 
any definite plan of action. At last, after what seemed an 
interminable period, the train steamed into Bury station, and, 
pale, nervous, and agitated, carrying my bag (which I would not 
trust to a porter), I ran down the steps into the courtyard. My 
father was waiting for me with the dogcart, and I observed 
with satisfaction that he was unaccompanied by a servant. 

My father greeted me with great cordiality, and in less time 
than it takes to tell I was seated at his side and we were 
speeding towards Holdenhurst as fast as our bay mare could 
trot. “ I thought it was best that you should come home,” 
said he, “ if only for a day. Of course, the place would be safe 
enough with old John ; but you know I never fancied leaving 
it unless you were at home, and just now there are a dozen 
or more strangers about the Hall. It is a strange piece of 
business, this affair of your aunt Annie. I have telegraphed to 
your grandfather that I will do all I can to find out where his 
daughter is, though, so far as I can perceive at present, that will 



UNREST. 


99 


be very little. Annie is the last girl in the world I should have 
expected to err in that way ; she was always such a loving child. 
I would no more have believed that she had a thought hidden 
from her father than I would at this moment believe such a 
thing of you.” 

At this remark I winced, yet foolishly held my peace as to 
what I had so lately read, and which now engrossed all my 
thoughts. To be wise after the event is the quality of modern 
prophets — of dispensers of generalities and copy-book wisdom, 
whom I have no desire to imitate. I know not how it was. I 
suppose I am by nature secretive, or that at the time some ill- 
defined idea suggested itself to my mind that I should best 
serve my interest by carefully reserving to myself the informa- 
tion I had acquired ; though I have never at any time regarded 
my father’s interest as other than identical with my own, nor 
did I conceal my information as part of a determined policy. 
That my reticence was a grave error I now know. Had I at 
once imparted my discovery to he who by nature and statute 
law had the greatest right to know of it, I had spared myself 
much misery and the British public had not been afflicted with 
these memoirs. 

“ Even if you cannot suggest anything for us to do in the 
matter,” said my father, continuing, “ it is well that you have 
returned home. When two persons discuss a case some 
practicable notion will often occur to one of them which 
solitary contemplation fails to produce. You have read your 
grandfather’s letter ? ” 

“Yes ; I have read grandfather’s letter,” I replied. 

“ Well, and what is your opinion ? ” 

“ I think he has acted unwisely in making such long journeys 
to find his daughter, more especially with such slender means 
as his. If he did not know at all what had become of her, I 
could better understand his doing so ; but according to Annie’s 
own letters, as her father describes them, she has gone off of 
her own free will, and repents her act only so far as her present 
position prevents her seeing her father. Suppose Annie’s 


ICO 


HOLDENHURST HALL 


address is discovered, and grandfather visits her and learns all 
her circumstances, depend upon it his gratification will end 
there; having been heartless enough to voluntarily abandon 
her father, she would hardly be likely to give up whoever she 
is with and return to Holdenhurst, or to some employment in 
London. That you may gather from her protest that she is 
kindly treated. I do not think so well of her as you and 
grandfather do.” 

“Why, Ernest, my boy, you begin to reason like your uncle, 
and are rather uncharitable ; but I fear you are right.” 

“ I am not in the least uncharitable,” I retorted warmly. 
“On the contrary, I regret what has happened as much 
perhaps as you do ; but my sympathy is more with grandfather 
than with Annie. Although I see but little use in the inquiry 
he has asked you to make, I was in the act of starting for 
Richmond to investigate the clue he gave when the Rev. Evan 
Price brought me your message, and I at once came here in- 
stead. Don’t think I’m indifferent to what concerns you so much.” 

“ My dear boy, why assure me of what I know so well ? ” 
asked this best of fathers. “Your prompt return is sufficient 
proof of that.” As this parental commendation was uttered 
we passed through my father’s gates, and the next minute 
alighted at the porch of Holdenhurst Hall, where old John 
stood at the open door to receive us. 

I had been absent from my birthplace only one week, but 
the changes which had been made in it during that brief period 
astonished me. The entire Hall was encompassed with an 
intricate network of scaffolding, and our beautiful lawn 
disfigured by planks, ladders, and piles of slate and white 
hewn stone laid about in confusion. Many of the upper 
windows had been taken out, the vacant spaces presenting a 
grim, inhospitable aspect. Thoughts of the enhanced grandeur 
of the place a few months hence failed to dispel the chilling 
depression that came over me as I noticed these changes, and 
I entered my old home with stranger and sadder feelings than 
I had ever before experienced. 


UNREST. 


IOI 


My discomfort was increased when I saw the interior. All 
the pictures and armour had been removed from the hall and 
staircase, and while part of the oak walls remained darkened 
by the centuries part had been scraped and polished and 
looked like the library walls of a Kensington mansion built 
yesterday. In nearly all the rooms the furniture was displaced 
and much of it covered up. 

“ How do you like the look of the place ? ” asked my father 
with a faint smile. 

The disconsolate expression of my face which prompted this 
query was a sufficient answer to it. I do not remember having 
ever before been so profoundly miserable as when we wandered 
together from room to room and along the gloomy corridors 
surveying the confusion which everywhere prevailed. 

“ Come, don’t be so melancholy about it,” urged my father ; 
“ in seven or eight weeks at most the Hall will be thoroughly 
restored and cleaned, and the architect your uncle has engaged 
assures me that the renovation shall be effected in the most 
conservative manner possible, the antiquity of the place being 
in no way damaged.” 

I observed that I hoped it might be so. 

“ There is no doubt of it,” continued my father. “ Have 
you seen the church ? No ! It is at present without a roof, 
and the pulpit has been moved from the north to the south 
side. Where the altar was the new organ is to be. On 
Sunday Mr Fuller is to preach in Johnson’s barn near the 
watermill.” 

“ Haven’t these changes been made very quickly?” 

“ Indeed, they have ; but you are not acquainted with half of 
them yet. Yesterday a celebrated arboriculturist from Kew 
was here and went over the estate, marking trees which he 
considers too old either for use or ornament ; they are to come 
down, and more than two thousand new trees are to be planted. 
I am told that your uncle had to pay a fee of ^25 for his 
services.” 

“Shall we dine now?” I asked, abruptly changing the 


102 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


subject, though I never felt less inclined to eat in my life. 
What I had seen and heard made me feel sick at heart, and I 
would have welcomed almost anything to divert my mind, 
perplexed as it was and wearied with strong and varying 
emotions. 

“ Of course ; you have had a long journey,” said my father, 
looking at his watch. “ It is not yet seven o’clock, but I will 
order something to be served at once.” 

A small room which overlooked the garden had not as yet 
been interfered with, and there we sat down to a hastily 
improvised dinner. Old John waited at table as usual, but 
made one or two awkward blunders, and seemed so strange in 
his manner that I took the first opportunity that presented 
itself of remarking upon it. 

“You see, he is over sixty,” urged his employer, “and we 
must'not expect much from him now. The alterations going 
on here, and the presence of so many strangers, has so dis- 
organised him that he has been almost beside himself the last 
few days ; on Friday I could scarce make anything of him. 
When the workmen are gone we must find the old man a 
cottage and a small pension. He has lived here since he was 
a boy, and has been a good and faithful servant.” 

“ That will be rather lonely for him, won’t it ? Fancy old 
John Adams, bachelor and ex-butler, who never had a thought 
that went beyond his sideboard or the kitchen, living by him- 
self in a cottage ! ” 

“It will be as lonely for him as it has been for me the week 
that my boy was in London,” agreed my good-natured father, 
and then reverted to the case of my unfortunate aunt Annie. 
I listened to his opinions and conjectures with but feeble 
interest, making pretence of so much attention as decency 
required, while I debated with myself how I might best go 
down into the crypt unobserved by my father or the servants. 

Very rar'ely was anybody out of bed in Holdenhurst Hall at 
so late an hour as eleven in the evening ; and I therefore 
determined, if only I could screw my courage up to the 


UNREST. 


103 


necessary pitch, to make a secret visit to the crypt at midnight. 
With this purpose in view I withdrew to my room as soon as 
possible, and having unpacked my bag wrote to Miss Marsh ; 
but I was so unsettled and unnerved that I made three rough 
drafts of a short letter before I could express myself to my 
satisfaction. That task accomplished, I went into the garden, 
and thence wandered to the staples to fetch a lantern which 
hung behind one of the doors there — a ponderous structure of 
glass and metal, encasing an oil lamp, the whole depending on 
a huge ring ; such a lantern as the watchmen of London carried 
in the time of the Georges. Having assured myself that it was 
provided with oil and a wick, I conveyed it to my room, and 
then returned to my father, who at once resumed the discus- 
sion of which I was so heartily weary. As with most matters 
which are much discussed, no decision was reached; and when 
at ten o’clock we separated for the night, I retired to my room 
in a strange condition of unrest, a prey to diversified emotions, 
Hope and Fear struggling for the mastery. 


XIV. 


THE CRYPT. 

O beauteous Hope, man’s solace everywhere, 

Yield not thy sway o’er me to grim Despair. 

The human mind, though busiest when exchanging ideas in 
conversation with others, dives deepest in solitude. Probably 
no case was ever profoundly considered unless the student 
was alone, and never so profoundly as when involuntarily — 
when the mental faculties are so absorbed in contemplation 
of one subject that diversion from it is as being awakened from 
sleep. 

I experienced this truth when — having retired to my room, 
set down the lantern, and exchanged my boots for slippers — 
I. placed my elbows on the mantelpiece and my head upon 
my hands, and stood so for I know not how long. That such 
was my attitude for not less than two hours I am sure from 
the interruption which dispelled my reverie. 

I had emptied my pockets, and all the money I possessed 
— six sovereigns and some odd shillings— lay before me on 
the mantelpiece. Perhaps it was the sight of these few 
coins which led me to review* my experiences 'of the past 
twelve days, and to seriously ask myself for the last time before 
seeking assurance by actual essay, what were my chances to 
find the treasure which had been deposited in the crypt 
beneath my father’*, house. That the treasure of which I had 
that day read had been disposed of as described by my 
ancestor, I did not for a moment doubt ; that such a treasure 


THE CRYPf. 


105 


should be suffered to rest undisturbed for more than two 
hundred years, there were many reasons to doubt. Yet was 
it not distinctly asserted by Roger Trueman that the treasure 
was in the Abbot’s Cell in the crypt — that it was to remain 
there until he built a hospital ? Might not the bricked-up 
arch which my aunt Gertrude had noticed when she went 
over Holdenhurst Hall be this same Abbot’s Cell alluded to 
by my ancestor; and might not the reason for its being 
bricked up be to secure its contents ? And if that were so, 
could its contents be other than the quarter of a million 
Venetian sequins which had so strangely fallen into my 
ancestor’s possession and been as strangely bestowed by 
him ? It rhust be so. No one of my family had ever built or 
endowed a hospital — no one of them had ever possessed so 
much money as a quarter of a million sequins, unless it were 
this same Roger Trueman ; and had so large a sum of money 
been found in our house and appropriated by any member of 
my family at any period I could not have failed to hear of it. 
Yes ; the money must certainly be there, and I would presently 
go below and look at it, and my father and I would fetch it 
upstairs in the morning. Then would my father and I insist 
on returning to uncle Sam the money which he had so 
generously given to us ; then would I ask Constance Marsh to 
become my wife; then 

Great God, what a thing is money — the epitome of all 
men’s desires ! Why, those six small yellow counters lying on 
the shelf before me would buy the hard daily labour of an East 
Anglian giant, who to gain them would sweat and toil in the 
parched fields from sunrise to sunset for twelve weeks — wages 
current this last quarter of the nineteenth century. For less 
than two of them will not a man labour in darkness in the 
bowels of the earth with constant peril to life or limb, or 
stand before a roaring furnace, or work in the noxious air of 
a factory amid the maddening whirl of machinery, for a week, 
esteeming himself fortunate if such slender means of life so 
earned be not denied him ? For want of these same counters 


io 6 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


has not a loving husband and father watched his wife pine 
and his child die ? Answer, you who have been up and down 
this England of ours, you who have traversed her towns and 
villages, you who know how the poor live and how they die, 
is it not so ? Why, in the towns of Christian England, is every 
man plucked by the sleeve who passes along the byeway? 
What is the cause? Lust? Nay; dire need of a pitifully 
few silver counters, and the inability of hundreds of thousands 
of women to gain them by means more honourable. Even I, 
whose life has not yet run to two decades, and who have 
always lived remote from the busy haunts of men, cannot 
but know these truths ; and is it not wrong in one who has 
youth, leisure, and the luxuries of life to so passionately desire 
to grasp this treasure, which he has done nothing to acquire 
and which certainly is not his ? But a few days ago, and the 
spirit of greed was foreign to my nature ; now is my whole 
being dominated by it. Alas, can it be that Love, purest of 
passions, evokes Avarice ? No ; desire of that which is 
necessary in compassing a natural and laudable ambition is 
not avarice. These sequins are necessary to me if I am to 
win the girl upon whom I have set my heart; nay, more, 
perhaps they have been reserved in this mysterious way for 
this special object. Have not the wise men of the earth in 
every age ascribed what are commonly called mysteries to the 
orderly decrees of higher powers? But for my love of 
Constance Marsh the question whether there exists a hidden 
treasure in our house or not would only languidly interest me. 
Che sara sara. Now will I light my lantern and go below. 
If Heavens ! what was that ? 

I turned about in a fright as great as that of a thief disturbed 
in his nefarious work, yet it was nothing more than a gentle 
tapping on the outside of my door. It was now a quarter of 
an hour past midnight, and my father and the servants should 
Lhave been in bed at least two hours. As I glanced at my 
watch the tapping was repeated, as gently as before. I am 
ashamed to confess how much this simple circumstance 


THE CRYPT. 


107 


alarmed me. I listened intently for a minute, conscious of 
nothing but the loud ticking of my watch and the violent 
throbbing of my heart, when the tapping was repeated a third 
time, still very softly. With a great effort I disguised my 
terror, and called out boldly — 

“ Who’s there ? ” 

“ It’s only me, Master Ernest,” replied the feeble voice of 
John Adams. 

“What do you want?” I asked, flinging the door wide open. 

“Are you ill? Is there anything I can do for you?” 
inquired the old man. 

“ No, I am not ill, and there is nothing you can do for me. 
Why do you trouble me with such an absurd inquiry ? ” 

“ I thought I heard you walking about, and that I saw a 
light in your room.” 

“ Why, I have not moved off the hearth-rug these two hours 
or more, and the only light here is that taper on the mantel- 
piece.” 

“You are not angry with me, Master Ernest?” pleaded the 
old man. 

“No, no; why should I be? You are very attentive. Go 
to bed at once.” 

I watched the old man as he slowly walked away along the 
corridor carrying a lighted candle in one hand, and shading 
its flame with the other, and did not re-enter my room until 
after I had heard his door close. 

This simple incident abated much of my courage, and 
caused me to postpone my visit to the crypt for a full hour. 

I was very anxious and nervous, but not to be deterred from 
carrying out my resolve. At half-past one o’clock I quietly 
emerged from my room, closing the door behind me as 
noiselessly as possible. In one hand I carried a lantern — 
lighted, but with the wick turned so low that it emitted only a 
feeble gleam — and in the other a riding whip without a thong, 
on the butt of which a heavy hammer was mounted — an instru- 
ment used by my sporting forefathers for opening obstinate 


tiOLDENHUkST HALL. 


to8 

five barred gates. I tried to persuade myself that I carried 
this weapon solely to assist in removing any lumber or other 
inanimate obstruction which might lie between me and the 
object of my search, and not for defence — an ingenious but 
unsuccessful attempt at self-deception. 

The light from my lantern, feeble though it was, caused 
my form to cast an enormously exaggerated shadow on the 
floor and wall of the corridor. The carpets had been removed 
from the corridor and stairs, a circumstance I had not con- 
sidered, and despite my soft slippers and careful tread, a 
distinctly audible and weird creaking proclaimed each step I 
set. I paused for a moment outside Old John’s door. It 
was closed, and all was dark and silent within. The creaking 
of the stairs was so loud that had any inmate of our old 
house chanced to have been lying awake my errand must 
have infallibly been betrayed. 

Once in the entrance hall, I again paused. All was still and 
quiet as the grave. Setting down my lantern, I took from my 
pocket a huge key I had been careful to abstract from its 
accustomed place a few hours before, and which opened a 
door in a stillroom at the back of the entrance hall, whence a 
steep flight of stone steps led down into the crypt. There 
was now no further danger of disturbing anybody, and I 
entered the stillroom with confidence, but was annoyed to 
find the door which opened on the steps that led to the crypt 
standing partly open; and reproached myself for my careless- 
ness — for doubtless I was the last person there — regarding the 
circumstance as additional proof of my nervousness. How- 
ever, it could not matter, and I pushed open the door yet 
wider and boldly descended into the crypt. 

I had not visited the crypt since I conducted my aunt 
Gertrude through it, and perhaps less than half a dozen 
imes before. Certainly I had not previously observed it so 
osely as I now did. It was a large vault, built entirely of 
tone, the mainway of being an apartment about eighteen 
eet wide and as long as tne house — that is to say, a hundred 


THE CR\PT. 


109 


and ten feet — with eight arched recesses on either side, 
whereof the one to which I was bound differed nothing from 
the others except in being closed by a brick wall at the front. 
The mainway was tolerably clear, but nearly all the recesses 
were filled with miscellaneous lumber, for the most part ancient 
and peculiar — terrestrial and celestial globes, telescopes, 
retorts, crucibles, and strange instruments of which I did not 
know the names, doubtless the whole of them long ago 
rendered worthless by modern and improved means of scientific 
investigation. Notwithstanding my extreme eagerness to 
accomplish the object of my visit to this place, I proceeded 
but slowly on my way, looking into each recess, first on the 
right and then on the left, resolving to thoroughly examine 
every object in it after I had informed my father of my mag- 
nificent discovery. 

My spirits were greatly elated ; for indeed it was scarcely 
possible that I should now be disappointed, my greatest fear — 
that the workmen employed about the house had been into 
the crypt to use it as a store for their tools and materials — being 
dispelled, for no sign of them or their belongings was any- 
where to be seen. 

In this mood I reached the Abbot’s Cell, and, having turned 
up the wick of my lantern, stood before it and considered it. 
Yes, there it was ; and its aspect was the same as when my 
attention was first called to it by aunt Gertrude. And now, 
how was I to remove so much of this brick screen as would 
enable me to get through to where the treasure chests were 
concealed ? I observed with joy that the mortar between the 
bricks, from age and want of timely repair, was nearly all 
crumbled and gone ; but though I could have drawn a few of 
the bricks out of their places w th the aid of my hammer, I 
refrained from doing so for fear of the upper bricks falling 
upon me, which from their loose appearance seemed more 
than probable. 

To get a couple of boxes, stand them on end one upon the 
other and mount to the top, was the work only of a few 


no 


HOL DENHURS 7 HALL. 


minutes. I then applied my hammer as a lever to force up 
one of the topmost bricks, and was surprised to find that it was 
merely laid in its place and not attached in any way to its 
fellows. This was the case with another, and yet another. 
Why, all the bricks were perfectly loose— merely piled one 
upon another as a child builds houses with wooden blocks. 

I removed more than a hundred bricks which formed the 
upper rows by simply lifting them one by one and laying them 
aside upon the floor. When a sufficient number had been 
removed to enable me to see what was within, I stood my 
lantern on what was now the top of the wall and, with feelings 
of intense satisfaction and delight, beheld several square black 
chests at the end of the recess. Forgetting in the excitement 
of the moment that the wall with which I was dealing was 
such only in appearance, I leaped on to the top of it, and by 
aid of my hands dropped down on the inside, pulling a large 
part of the structure inwards with me and dashing my lantern 
to the ground with so much force that the glass was broken 
and the light extinguished. 

Fortunately I was not unprovided for such an emergency, as, 
being a smoker of cigarettes, it was my custom to carry fusees. 
I soon extricated my lantern from among the bricks which had 
fallen with it, and having re-lit it, proceeded to examine my 
surroundings. At the end of the recess stood the black chests 
which I had noticed from the outside, orderly disposed in 
three rows, three chests in a row — one chest less than I had 
expected to find. Looking about me more particularly, I 
beheld with dismay the tenth chest nearly in the middle of the 
apartment, with a half-burned candle protruding from the neck 
of a bottle and an ordinary up-to-date box of matches stand- 
ing upon it ; at sight of which my burning hope fell to zero. 
Having removed the candle and matches, I tapped the chest 
with my hammer; it was resonant. I lifted it; it weighed 
scarce ten pounds, and the lid fell off on to the floor. I held! 
my lantern close and scrutinised it eagerly, and — O Hell ! — it 
bore every sign of having been recently opened; the thick 


THE CRYPT. 


Ill 


black paint was grazed in a way that denoted the action 
of a double-pointed crowbar as freshly as if the chest had 
been forced open an hour ago. I stood it down, ran to 
the other chests, and quickly moved them from where they 
stood. Not one of them contained anything, but each bore 
the same unmistakable traces of recent violation as I had 
observed upon the first. 

Mad with rage and disappointment, I quitted the recess in 
the manner I had entered it, pushing outward a lot of loose 
bricks in the act, and was striding rapidly along the mainway 
with intent to go at once to my father and tell him all, when 
an object met my gaze which arrested my progress and almost 
stupefied me with terror. In a recess near to the door by 
which I had entered the crypt crouched the figure of a man, 
his back towards me the better to conceal a small lamp which 
he carried. 

I was never robust, and my breakdown at this critical 
juncture must in justice be ascribed to natural weakness rather 
than to cowardice. My first impulse was to rush at the 
intruder and strike him down with my hammer, but all power 
of locomotion had deserted me. I tried to shout for help; 
but my tongue refused its office, and, involuntarily relaxing my 
grasp of my lantern and weapon, I sank insensible to the 
ground. 


XV. 


FATHER AND SON. 

An evil deed, by whomsoever wrought, 

Like fabled upas, broadcast spreads around 
A baleful influence, overwhelming all — 

The wronged, the wronger, and the friends of each. 

“ O Ernest, my own dear boy, look up and speak to me like 
yourself,” said my father, holding my hand and looking down 
upon me with an expression of deep solicitude upon his kindly 
face. 

I pressed my father’s hand and regarded him steadfastly, but 
made no reply, feeling painfully weak and ill. 

“Please don’t irritate my patient, Mr Truman. With 
quietude, in a day or two he will be as well as ever,” said a voice 
at my side, which I recognised as belonging to Dr Thurlow. 

For a few seconds it was difficult to realise my surroundings, 
familiar though they were. Yes, this was my room, and I was 
lying in my own bed. That was our housekeeper, sitting by 
the clear, low fire ; and the sunlight, which the drawn curtains 
subdued but could not exclude, seemed to denote midday. 

With a great effort, I suddenly sat upright. “ Leave me 
with my father,” I cried; “I want to talk with him.” 

“Not now, not now,” answered the doctor; “another time 
will do for that. You must rest.” 

“No; now, now!” I exclaimed, with great excitement. 
“ Father, send these people away.” 

“ My dear boy, be calm. I know all that you would tell me, 


FATHER AND SON. 113 

and care nothing about it. My only anxiety is to have you 
well again.” 

“No, no ; you do not know. I must tell you now.” 

“ Ernest, my boy, for my sake don’t excite yourself. I say 
again, I know all that you would tell me. For two days and 
nights you have talked of nothing else.” 

“ Impossible ! Two days and nights ! What do you mean ? ” 

“I think you had better withdraw for a few hours, Mr 
Truman,” said Dr Thurlow; “your presence disturbs my 
patient.” 

My father relinquished his grasp of my hand and moved 
reluctantly towards the door. 

“ Don’t leave me, father,” I implored, stretching my arms 
out towards him ; and he at once returned to -me. “ Tell me, 
what day is this ? ” 

“ Wednesday.” 

“Wednesday,” I repeated stupidly; “Wednesday. My 
father says to-day is Wednesday. Then all is lost,” and I lay 
back again on my pillow. 

“Yes, to-day is Wednesday,” corroborated Dr Thurlow, 
gently putting back the hair from my forehead with his hand ; 
“ and before Wednesday comes again, I hope to see you on 
your pony, galloping past my house in your usual style. But 
you are mistaken in thinking that all is lost ; on the contrary, 
nothing is lost. There have been no thieves here.” 

A long silence ensued, during which I lay quite still, my 
face towards my father, who had seated himself by the side of 
the bed. That two days and nights had elapsed since I went 
down into the crypt extinguished my last ray of hope of 
obtaining the sequins, and my normal calmness, to which I 
had been a stranger from the hour of reading my ancestor’s 
Record, began to reassert itself. At last the housekeeper rose 
from her chair and noiselessly quitted the room. She was 
soon afterwards followed by Dr Thurlow, who whispered a few 
words to my father, and th^n departed on tiptop 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


114 

My wished-for opportunity had now arrived, but I was care- 
ful not to lose it by too great precipitancy, recent events having 
taught me some policy, and I therefore allowed several minutes 
to elapse before I spoke. 

“ How was it that I came to be here ? The last thing I 
remember is being in the crypt on Monday night, not long 
after my return from London. What has been the matter with 
me ? Don’t fear to tell me. I am nearly, if not quite, well, 
and it will relieve my mind to know.” 

“ But Dr Thurlow has just impressed upon me that I am 
not to talk to you of that ; he says it will distress you.” 

“ It is only natural that he should think so ; but he is 
wrong. If he only knew what I know, he would not have 
given you such advice. See, I am calm and rational. Do 
please tell me.” 

“There is really very little to tell you, and it is hard to 
refuse you anything. You must not let Dr Thurlow know that 
I have disobeyed him. Cn Monday night, or rather very early 
on Tuesday morning, John came into my room in a great 
fright, and woke me up. I thought the old man was mad, and 
for a little while in my sleepy state could make nothing of his 
rapid utterances and violent gesticulations ; but at last he got 
me to understand that he had been unable to sleep, having 
heard strange noises in the house which induced him to go 
downstairs to see if all was right. He found the door of the 
stillroom open, and also the door which leads to the crypt. 
The old man had the courage to descend into the crypt, where 
he was horrified to find you lying, as he supposed, dead. He 
came up to me, as I have said, and as soon as I could make 
out his story, I went with him down to the crypt, and together 
we brought you up here. You were bleeding from a wound at 
the back of your head, and quite senseless. Everybody in the 
house was alarmed, and one of the women fetched Dr Thurlow. 
At first we thought you had been struck by a burglar ; but Dr 
Thurlow disproved that by your wound, which he has shown 
was caused by a fall. Why you went into the crypt we know ; 


FATHER AND SON. 1 1 5 

but exactly how you came to fall as you did you must tell us, 
if you can, when you get quite well.” 

“Why was it I went into the crypt, do you think?” 

“ We suppose you heard the same noises that old John heard, 
and went downstairs to ascertain the cause. It is strange that 
both of you should be so mistaken. Nobody had broken into the 
house ; all the outer doors were fast, and nothing is missing. 
One circumstance none of us can understand is how a certain 
lantern came to be lying by your side ; it belongs to the stable, 
and I have never known it to be brought into the house. But 
I am talking too much ; Dr Thurlow will be back in a minute 
and lecture me for disobeying him.” 

“Your conclusions are as I thought they would be. Has 
Dr Thurlow gone home ? ” 

“No; he is with John.” 

“Why with John?” 

“The old man is very ill ; he has not yet recovered from his 
fright at finding you as he did.” 

“ Ah ! I have much to tell you which should make you 
angry with me for concealing it from you so long ; but you are 
so good and gentle with your foolish boy that I don’t 
suppose you will be.” 

“ My Ernest would have to act very differently from anything 
I have ever known of him to excite my anger,” declared this 
best of fathers. “ I have nothing to forgive ; or if I have, I 
forgive you with my whole heart before I know' w r hat is the 
offence you charge yourself with.” 

At this point our colloquy w r as interrupted by the entry of Dr 
Thurlow. He stayed but a very little while however, and having 
expressed his satisfaction with the condition of both his patients, 
and promised to call again in the evening, he took his departure. 
As soon as the sound of his footsteps in the corridor had died 
away, I resumed the conversation with my father. 

“ Tell me what are the matters I have raved about since that 
night in the crypt,” I said. “ It may be that you know some- 
thing of w r hat I would tell you.” 


HOLDENHURST HALt. 


II 6 

My father’s face relaxed into a smile, and his eyes twinkled 
in a manner peculiar to him in moments of amusement. 

“ Oh, we will tell you about that in years to come.” 

“ What was it I talked about ? ” I asked again. 

“ Many things. I don’t remember a tenth of them.” 

“Tell me a few that you do remember,” I urged. 

“ About vast stores of gold coins being stolen from this 
house — about the beauty of your aunt Gertrude’s sister — about 
the Rev. Mr Price —and a lot of similar nonsense which I may 
perhaps recollect more of by-and-by.” 

“ No, father ; it was not nonsense I talked about, but sober 
fact ; though maybe I didn’t know what I was saying at the time. 

In very truth, as true as you are listening to my words, you 
have been quite recently robbed of an immense treasure in 
gold.” And, raising myself on my elbow, I acquainted him 
as clearly and briefly as I could with the information I had 
obtained from Roger Trueman’s Record, and of my consequent 
action and its result. 

My father, who soon became deeply interested, suffered me 
to continue my narrative without interruption. When I had 
ceased speaking he made no remark, but rested his face upon ' 
his hands and appeared lost in thought. 

After waiting some time, and finding that my father exhibited 
no sign of remarking upon my story, I asked him if he did not 
now believe that he had been recently robbed of a quarter of a 
million sequins. 

“I believe I have been robbed of so much treasure,” he 
assented ; “ but I hope and pray that it was not recent.” 

“ What an extraordinary wish ! ” I exclaimed, astonishes. 

“ Surely the chances of recovering the treasure are much greater 
if it was lately stolen than they would be if it was taken away 
years ago.” 

“ Do you know, Ernest,” said my father, appearing not t<, 
notice my remark ; “ your uncle Sam was talking to me about 
that very treasure the first evening you saw him here.” 

“ Then its existence was known to you both ? ” 


Father and son. 


ii 7 

“ Not exactly. It was known to all his family that Roger 
Trueman — Roger the Renegade, or Roger the Alchemist, as he 
was variously called — brought with him from Turkey an immense 
treasure of gold and jewels ; but none of us ever knew what 
finally became of them, and for more than a hundred years 
nobody has troubled to inquire. But I have always under- 
stood that my great-grandfather spent yeafrs in a fruitless search 
for it, which I suppose has deterred his successors from wasting 
their time in the same way.” 

“ What was it uncle Sam said to you about the treasure the 
evening I first saw him ? ” 

“ That he believed it was concealed somewhere in Holden- 
hurst Hall, and might yet be found.” 

“ Then why do you hope that the robbery is not recent ? ” 

“ Don’t ask me,” exclaimed my father, starting up excitedly ; 
“ I hate myself for my present thoughts. Tell me where to find 
that old manuscript ; I will fetch it and read it here.” 

My father walked to the other side of the room and took the 
book out of a drawer which I indicated. I had never seen 
him so strangely moved before. That he should be disturbed 
by the information just imparted to him was only what I had 
expected ; nevertheless his reception of my revelation surprised 
me. Though greatly concerned with the matter, and evidently 
considering all I had said, it was plain that measures for the 
recovery of the sequins engaged very little of his attention ; but 
I refrained for the present from remarking on that circumstance, 
and remained still and quiet while he sat by my bed and read 
his ancestor’s Record. At last he laid aside the book with a 
sigh, and rising from his chair paced the room thoughtfully. 
After some minutes he suddenly paused before me, saying — 

“ I wish you were well enough to accompany me to the 
crypt.” 

I assured my father of my ability to do so without danger or 
even inconvenience, and was about to get up when he stopped me. 

“ Not until Dr Thurlow has seen you again, and then only 
with his consent.” 


iS 


H0LDENHURS1 HALL. 


“What nonsense!” I exclaimed, springing out of bed. 
“ Because I have been disappointed and have knocked my head 
on a stone pavement you want to make an invalid of me. 
Surely two days is enough to spend in bed talking nonsense, 
especially at such a time as this when there is so much to do and 
consider;” and despite my father’s protests I hastened to dress 
myself, assuming a smile and talking cheerfully all the while. 
But the performance cost me a tremendous effort, for I felt 
wretchedly weak and ill. 

“ Well, I suppose it must be so then,” consented my father, 
when he perceived that my obstinacy was not to be over- 
come ; “ it will be best to make a careful examination of the 
place before your uncle comes.” 

“ Before my uncle comes ! ” I echoed. “ Is uncle Sam 
coming ? ” 

“ Yes, to-morrow morning. I telegraphed to him yesterday, 
informing him of your accident, and he replied that he would 
come down on Thursday.” 

“ Ah ! ” I said, “ he little knows what a story we have to tell 
him.” 

“ I hope he does not, I am sure,” said my father sadly. 

“ How strangely you talk, father ! Surely you don’t mean 
to imply that your brother has directly or indirectly stolen those 
sequins out of your house ? I would stake my life upon uncle 
Sam’s honour ; and as for his wealth, liberality, and ability, you 
would not easily match them in another man.” 

To my inexpressible surprise and pain, my father ignored my 
question, merely remarking that he hoped no harm might come 
of my going down into the crypt, and that I must certainly be 
back again in my room before Dr Thurlow returned. 

It was an hour past noon when we entered the crypt, my 
father walking first holding a lamp, for the place was as dark 
by day as by night. After pausing for a moment to observe a 
crimson stain which marked the spot where I had fallen, we 
proceeded at once to the Abbot’s Cell — for my father, when 
he assisted in bringing me up out of the crypt, and again when 


FATHER AND SON. 


119 

he went there with Dr Thurlow to explain to him in what 
circumstances I had been found, had not penetrated so far. 

The crypt’s store of surprises was not yet exhausted, whatever 
might be the cas$ with its sequins, for walking up to the 
Abbot’s Cell I saw with astonishment that it was closed by the 
brick screen as when my attention was first called to it. The 
bricks had been carefully re-pT d one upon another precisely 
as I had found them on Monday night, or if there was any 
difference, they were built up somewhat more neatly ; for not- 
withstanding the aid of my father, it took longer to effect an 
entry into the Cell than when I was unassisted. On reaching 
the interior we found that the candle and matches had been 
taken away, and the empty chest upon which I had seen them 
was placed with the other empty chests. All else in the Cell 
was unchanged. 

My father spoke very few words during this investigation, and 
appeared greatly depressed, though, so far as I could make 
out, he cared but little for the loss he had sustained. He agreed 
with me (for indeed the evidences of it were undeniable) that the 
contents of the chests had been abstracted quite recently — 
probably only a few days before. 

We left the crypt as we had entered it, my father locking the 
door after him and putting the key into his pocket. Coming out 
of the stillroom into the hall we noticed that the front door 
was opened as widely as possible, and that eight strong men 
were with much difficulty bringing in upon rollers an immense 
steel safe of enormous weight, the secure receptacle for our 
family papers which uncle Sam had promised to my father 


XVI 


EXIT UNCLE SAM. 

Cruel must be the fates, and dark the day, 

When youthful love shall fail to find a way 
Its object to achieve. With ills opprest, 

The lover sighs and vainly seeks for rest ; 

Like the snared eagle, battling with his bonds, 

He fears yet fights, till pitying Heav’n responds, 

u Truly, the ways of parents are peculiar ! If you wanted 
your son knocked on the head, were there not people enough 
in London able and willing to execute your commission, but 
you must needs send for him to this place? Come, tell me 
how it all happened.” 

Thus spake the cheery voice of uncle Sam as he entered 
our drawing-room the next morning after the events narrated 
in the last chapter. Though still depressed in spirit (now 
chiefly because of the horrible suspicion which I knew my 
father entertained), I was fairly well in health, and was dressed to 
receive our visitor. My father’s melancholy was more apparent 
than mine, and his serious demeanour contrasted strangely 
with the buoyant gaiety of his brother. 

“Ernest had an awkward fall on the stone floor of the 
crypt late on Monday night or on Tuesday morning, and lay 
there unconscious for some time before he was discovered. 
That is all,” answered my father, “ but he is nearly, if not quite, 
well now.” 

“ On the floor of the crypt ! ” echoed uncle Sam, in a tone 
of surprise. “What the devil was he doing in the crypt at 


EXIT UNCLE SAM. 


121 


that unearthly hour? No, no; I beg your pardon. Don’t 
tell me, I don’t want to know — I remember my own little 
escapades when I was about his age. Really, the faculty of 
blushing in a young man will delude even the old and 
experienced more effectually than the most skilful lying. So, 
Ernest, you young dog, you are no better than other people, 
eh? But enough of this. How are Knight and Faulkner 
getting on with the renovations ? I hope they are pushing the 
work vigorously. I would like to see the place completed and 
decent before I return to New York. I gave them carte 
blanche to do everything necessary to be done, and particularly 
insisted on despatch.” 

My father looked intensely glum as he listened to this 
speech, and some moments elapsed before he spoke. As for 
myself, it was a considerable time before I could resolve 
my uncle’s words; and desiring not to commit myself, I 
remained silent. 

“Your judgment or motive is not so good as it might be 
in this case, Sam. My boy has discovered perfectly reliable 
evidence that a quarter of a million Venetian sequins were 
concealed by old Roger Trueman in the Abbot’s Cell here, 
and wishing to pleasantly surprise me decided to withhold 
his information until he had verified it. This is why he visited 
the crypt on Monday night, when he found the place and 
the ten chests as indicated by Roger Truman himself; but 
with this difference, that all the chests had been opened and 
every sequin stolen.” 

“ Stolen ! ” exclaimed uncle Sam ; “ how do you know that ? 
And if so, how can you tell whether they were stolen a year or 
a century ago ? ” 

“ Very easily. By merely examining the Cell and the chests, 
and considering the attendant circumstances, any one endowed 
with common sense is bound to conclude that the robbery was 
committed as recently as four or five days ago.” 

“Positively you astound me. Have you examined your 
servants and Knight and Faulkner’s men?” 


122 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


My father shrugged his shoulders and smiled grimly. “There 
would be no use in that,” he said. 

“ I think there would be very great use in it, and that it 
ought to have been done before. Really, you astound me. 
Tell me the whole of the circumstances as briefly and clearly 
as you can. At present, I am not at all satisfied with the 
matter.” 

“And I still less so. Ernest, tell your uncle all you know 
about it,” and with these words my father rose from the couch 
on which we were all three sitting and walked through the open 
window on to the verandah. 

With a fluttering heart I begun my task, describing the 
manner in which I had found and appropriated Roger 
Trueman’s Record (which I read to him in full, having pro- 
vided myself with the volume for that purpose), and with 
my subsequent proceedings. My uncle listened with deep 
attention, only occasionally diverting his eyes from me to look 
at his brother, who was restlessly pacing up and down the 
verandah. In this way an hour or more passed, and I had 
completed my story. 

“ Thank you,” said uncle Sam, and pressed his hand upon 
his forehead, a habit of his when thinking. After a few 
moments he started to his feet and walked to the window, 
I following him. “Robert,” he cried, “come here; I have 
something to say to you.” 

My father re-entered the room. 

“Your son has read that Record to me, and explained how 
he found it, and what he has done and experienced in respect 
of it. I am not convinced that the sequins have been recently 
stolen, or that they have been stolen at all, though I perceive 
nothing improbable in either theory. Things quite as strange 
happen every day. But I have this to say to you. You have 
expressed yourself at least twice this morning in a manner I 
am not disposed to tolerate from any man, even my own 
brother. You have plainly insinuated, here in the presence 
pf your son, that I pretended not to know the business which 


EXIT UNCLE SAM. 


123 


called him to the crypt on Monday night, and that because 
of some motive — I think that was your word— of my own; 
and further, that I have better reason to be satisfied with this 
matter than you have. If by the latter you mean that a man 
who has not lost a quarter of a million sequins has better 
reason for satisfaction than one who has, I am content the 
remark should pass. But the first observation of which I 
complain admits of no sophistry. The only motive that could 
animate me in feigning ignorance of your son’s business in the 
crypt would be to conceal that I was concerned in some way 
in the stealing of those sequins. And besides, I do not like 
your manner towards me. All my successes have been due to 
a good memory and the power to read the thoughts and moods 
of men, and the instincts which have earned me all I have would 
scarcely fail me in dealing with a man of your mental calibre. 
No ; you must take my hand and assure me of your belief that 
I have never done you or your son the slightest wrong, and in 
particular that you are satisfied I know nothing about the 
treasure you have failed to find further than what you and 
your son have told me. Do that, and I am still your friend 
and brother, and will aid you with all the means in my power to 
solve this mystery. Decline my terms, and I will do my best 
to forget your existence.” 

Quite calmly but with terrible distinctness did uncle Sam 
thus challenge his brother. He had drawn himself up to his 
full height, and his head was set back a little further than was 
customary with him, yet one might reasonably have supposed 
as he stood waiting for a reply that he was engaged in nothing 
of particular import. Indeed, the expression of his face was 
not unlike that which he bore when uttering one of those 
cynical dogmas of which he had such a plentiful store, and 
he actually smiled as he listened to my father’s reply — words 
which snapped my most cherished hope like a thread and 
plunged me to the lowest depth of despair I had as yet 
sunk to. 

“ Indeed I will do no such thing. Unasked and from my 


124 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


heart I assure you that the goodwill I have ever borne towards 
you survives this affair, serious as it is ; but I cannot and will 
not comply with the terms you dictate, come what may. 
Surely you might have known that anything here was yours 
for the asking — that I would have given you anything 
I had so long as I retained a small competency for my son 
hereafter.” 

Uncle Sam remained motionless and silent for a full minute 
or more after my father had finished speaking ; then, drawing 
a deep breath and uttering a hardly audible sigh, he rested his 
hands on a table, leaned forward, and fixing his gaze upon his 
brother addressed him with intense earnestness. 

“ My curse upon you for an unthinking, cowardly wretch ! 
This is the second great injustice I have suffered at your hands. 
May that moment be my last when I put myself in a position 
for you to mete out such treatment to me a third time ! 
Twenty years ago, by grace of a miscalculating, self-seeking 
hind, you married the girl whose love I had won — who had 
solemnly pledged herself to me. Yes, you married her know- 
ing that I was her choice, and that her father compelled her to 
become your wife because of your broad acres. I complained 
not then to you , but went forth into the world trusting not 
vainly to Nemesis to avenge the wrong I had sustained. The 
sweetheart of my boyhood was not your wife for long ; and as 
for your Suffolk acres, what of them now ? They will scarce 
support the slave who ploughs them. Yes, Nemesis avenged 
your first injustice to me, and she will avenge your second. I 
had outlived almost the memory of that great wrong, and 
returned to you after twenty years, rich and influential, pre- 
pared to benefit you and your son in any way I could, and 
now, forsooth, in a half-hearted, cowardly manner, and without 
any sort of evidence, you accuse me of having robbed you of 
a quarter of a million sequins ! By the powers that be, I swear 
I never saw a sequin in my life, that I am not even sure I am 
correct in thinking it is a gold coin worth nine shillings and 
fourpence of British money \ but my supposition being correct, 


EXIT UNCLE SAM. 


125 


can you think I would make myself a thief for five hundred 
and sixty thousand dollars ? — I who on many occasions have 
profited more in one deal, and made eight times as much out 
of the Wabash pool alone. No, I am not a thief ; or if I was, 
I should not come to Suffolk to practise my profession. It 
is possible you may live to be convinced of the cruel blunder 
you have made ; but I care not how that may be, for you are 
already dead to me. Good-bye, Ernest, my boy. I am sorry 
for you. It is a hard fate to be the son of such a man, but 
you are not without hope. The son of a wise man is generally 
a fool, so by natural balance you should be wise, for you are 
certainly the son of a fool.” 

He turned to go, but I clutched his arm and prevented 
him, crying out despairingly — 

“ O father, father, what have you done? Unsay your words, 
and believe with me that uncle Sam has done us much kind- 
ness and no wrong.” 

My passionate plea received no answer. Uncle Sam gently 
disengaged himself from my grasp and moved towards the 
door. “If at any time you should need a friend,” he said, 
addressing me, “ I hope you will think of your uncle. Stay ; 
I had almost forgotten to give you this,” and taking a letter 
from his pocket he tossed it to me ; but I was too dazed to 
catch it, and it fell on the carpet. Then, waving his hand in 
token of farewell, he hastily quitted the room and was gone. 

I looked at my father. He was sitting on a low seat, his 
elbows resting on his knees, and his head buried in his hands. 
I spoke to him — I forget what it was that I said — but he took 
no notice of me, when through the open window I saw uncle 
Sam passing out of our gate. As soon as he was off our 
premises he stood still and looked intently at Holdenhurst 
Hall for a little while, then turned abruptly and walked at a 
great rate down the road which led towards Bury St Edmund’s. 

This spectacle, in itself pathetic, and symbolising as it did 
the collapse of my fervent hope, enraged me. Being weak 
from loss of blood and other consequences of my recent 


126 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


accident, I think my reason must have succumbed beneath my 
accumulated load of disappointments and anxieties, for in a 
sudden access of artificial strength I rushed at my father, laid 
my hands upon his shoulders, and forced him into an upright 
position, while I screamed out — 

“ It is false ! it is false ! I will go to my uncle and beg him 
to pardon you.” 

My father started to his feet, and grasping me by the wrists 
held me at arms’ length. “ I would to Heaven it were false,” 
he exclaimed, “ but it is true— too true. Shall I show you the 
proofs ? ” 

“You cannot,” I shouted ; “you have no proofs.” 

Then for the first and last time in his life did my father 
burst out in anger against me. “ Is everybody in conspiracy 
to madden me?” he asked excitedly. u I tell you, your uncle 
has stolen these sequins, and that recently. Still, I would not 
have told him so, or complained to any one, if he had not 
sought to extort a contrary declaration from me. Do you 
think I would denounce my own brother on doubtful or 
slender evidence? If you can think so badly of me, where 
then shall I turn for sympathy in my trouble ? Must I publish 
what I would fain conceal in order to induce you to believe 
your own father ? Look at that,” and he took from his pocket 
a large thin gold coin and placed it in my hand ; “ that is one 
of the sequins you went into the crypt to fetch — one of the 
two hundred and fifty thousand sequins you ought to have 
found there. Where the others are I don’t know ; but what I 
do know is that your uncle found means to convey them away 
from here about a week ago. I will tell you the details, if you 
want to know them, when you come to your senses and remem- 
ber that I am your father.” 

I sat down on a couch and burst into an agony of tears. In 
a moment my father was at my side holding my hands in his, 
and earnestly endeavouring to comfort me. Presently I grew 
calmer and got up — that unnatural and piteous product of 
adverse circumstances, a youth without hope. 


EXIT UNCLE SAM. 


127 


The kindness of my father was such as none but the parent 
of an only child can understand. In endeavouring to alleviate 
my distress he appeared to forget his own. “ This is a great 
misfortune,” he said; “the greatest which has befallen me 
since your dear mother died ; but we must try to forget it. I 
care nothing for the loss of the money — I would it had been 
sunk in the sea or that the Turks had had it — but I deplore 
my brother’s conduct, more especially as he has won your 
goodwill, and I had hoped and believed that good would come 
of it.” 

After a space my father resumed : 

“ When you feel disposed to hear the story I will relate all 
the circumstances of your uncle’s recent” — he paused, as if 
unable to find the precise word he wanted — “ act, or Adams 
shall, if he recovers sufficiently to do so ; he was an eye-witness 
of the — the act. But I have grave fears the old man will die, 
and even Dr Thurlow admits such an event is not improbable ; 
he is an old man, and these troubles are more than he can 
bear. It pained him keenly to show what he did against my 
brother, for he was much attached to Sam as a boy, and often 
inquired of him after he had gone away to America.” 

“ I don’t want to know any more about it now, and perhaps 
I never shall,” I replied, as I rose from the couch, picked up 
my letter, and opened it. It was from Constance Marsh, and 
ran as follows 

No. — , De Vere Gardens, 
Kensington, W., April 22, 18 — . 

Dear Mr Truman, — Many thanks for your kind letter. 
Pray accept my apology for having allowed it to remain 
unanswered for two days ; but news of your having met with 
an accident followed so closely upon your departure that I have 
been in doubt whether to write or not, for letters are trouble- 
some things to any one who is ill. I am so glad to learn from 
your father’s telegrams that your accident was only slight, and 
shall be very pleased to see you back in London again— for, 
of course, you will return with your uncle. 


128 


HOLDENHURST HALL . 


We have seen a great deal of your Holdenhurst clergyman, 
the Rev. Mr Evan Price, since you were here. I hardly know 
which is the greater flatterer, you or he. Your uncle admires 
him very much, and has invited him to New York ; he says he 
is a “ smart ” man, and ought to leave the Church and become 
a stockbroker. 

With kind regards, hoping to see you to-morrow or the 
next day at latest, as well in health as when we parted, believe 
me to remain, dear Mr Truman, very sincerely yours, 

Constance Marsh. 

“Let me see that letter, please, Ernest,” said my father, 
when I had finished reading. 

I handed the letter to my father. “ Poor boy ! ” he said, 
after he had glanced through it ; “ don’t be cast down ; you 
have seen nothing of the world yet; There are thousands and 
thousands of English girls in every respect as good as or better 
than this fair American. Cheer up. Everything is for the 
best.” 


XVII. 


TO THE WEST. 

He who is young should see the world. 

And he who fights with sorrow. 

Then start to-day ; you may be in 
Another world to-morrow. 

O the weary days and sleepless nights that succeeded the 
departure of uncle Sam from Holdenhurst ! Never in my life 
before had I been so utterly depressed and wretched. Every 
day some incident helped to confirm the overthrow of my 
aspirations, and increased my restlessness. In compliance 
with the earnest pleading of my father, I had written a brief 
note to Constance Marsh assuring her of my unalterable regard 
— that was the word he suggested as exactly suited to the 
occasion — but regretting the impossibility, owing to an un- 
fortunate incident, either of calling upon her in London or 
inviting her to Holdenhurst. To that note came no reply; 
nor could I in reason expect any, though each morning [ 
scanned the mail with hopeless curiosity. About a week 
afterwards my father received a letter from the Rev. Mr Price 
announcing his preferment to the living of All Saints, North 
Brixton, and consequent resignation of the vicariate of 
Holdenhurst Minor. Mr Price also stated that as he was 
not to take up his new duties for three months, he had'accepted 
an invitation to visit America, as he had long desired to study 
the methods and manners of American divines ; and that, 
being much pressed for time, he regretted his inability to return 
to Holdenhurst to preach a farewell sermon to his parishioners, 


130 


HOLDENHURST HALL . 


so had requested a friend to forward his effects to London 
—which I afterwards learned was accordingly done, the said 
effects consisting of two cricket bats, a fowling piece, a fishing 
rod and tackle, a tobacco jar and several pipes, a shelf-load of 
French novels with the margins annotated in the reverend 
gentleman’s own hand, and some dozens of slippers. Yet a 
few days later, and while I was still smarting under this intelli- 
gence, I noticed, quite accidentally, an announcement at the 
bottom of a column in the Times that Mr Samuel Truman, the 
American financier, accompanied by Mrs Truman and Miss 
Marsh, had sailed for New York from Liverpool the day before 
on board the Cunard steamship Etruria . 

Though his discontent was by no means equal to mine, my 
father was not without grave anxiety. The renovation of 
Holdenhurst Hall and the numerous and extensive improve- 
ments in progress on the estate were now fast approaching 
completion. The work was admirably done, and both house 
and grounds assumed an aspect incomparably superior to what 
they had presented at any former period of their history. My 
father acquainted me with the fact that he had very little 
money at his banker’s beyond the five thousand pounds which 
his brother had given to him, a sum quite inadequate to pay for 
the work done, and he feared that he would be obliged to 
renew the mortgage which had so recently been extinguished. 
With some temerity he formally inquired of Messrs Knight and 
Faulkner what would be the amount of their demand on the 
completion of their contract, and was informed by that firm 
that Mr Samuel Truman had satisfied their claim in full on a 
certain date — which we found was the very day my uncle was 
last at Holdenhurst. This circumstance was a victory for me, 
who had held, contrary to the opinion of my father, that uncle 
Sam would keep his word, and honourably pay for the work he 
had ordered to be done, notwithstanding his denunciation of 
his brother. 

The only thing which could have delivered me out ot the 
pitiable condition into which I had fallen at this period (except, 


TO THE WEST. 


13 


of course, the removal of its cause) was rigorous employment 
of my faculties. Though I did not lack discrimination to per- 
ceive this truth, I could not benefit myself thereby, having no 
power to exert my will. My time was spent in aimlessly 
wandering about the house and grounds, or sauntering in the 
library and taking a book at random from a shelf there, open- 
ing it, reading a few lines, closing it again, and returning it to 
its place. I became pale and haggard, and my evident want 
of the usual attributes of youth was noticed and remarked upon 
by my father’s friends, who were at a loss how to account for the 
change which had come over me. 

Though the days seemed long and wearisome, and the 
nights almost interminable, yet time passed away with more 
apparent swiftness for being marked by no particular events. 
It was the early springtime when I first beheld the girl whom 
I had fondly hoped to win for my own, from whose sweet 
companionship I had been ruthlessly severed by the strangest 
of events ; and that never-to-be-forgotten season had merged into 
summer, which in its turn had declined and died, and now the 
autumn was at hand. 

One glorious September morning I was listlessly gazing 
through the window which led out on to the verandah, my 
hands clasped behind me. From that spot it was I last beheld 
my uncle Sam as he stood in the roadway contemplating his 
birthplace, and my position induced a train of thought which 
could hardly be said ever to be absent from my mind. “Pshaw !” 
I muttered, turning suddenly round and walking quickly away ; 
“lama very fool. Here am I pining miserably, wasting my 
life in unproductive thought. If action based on impulse be 
bad, surely prolonged contemplation out of which no action 
grows must be worse. Though Constance Marsh can never 
be mine ; though my father and uncle can never be reconciled ; 
I will not consume my days in useless self-affliction. I will 
travel ; I will go to America ; perhaps I will call on my uncle ; 
perhaps ” 

“ Father,” I asked, a minute later, as I stood by his side in 


132 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


the study, where he sat examining an account book ; “ do you 
know what next Sunday will be ? ” 

My father looked up at me, and his face wore a puzzled, 
querulous expression. “Yes, my boy,” he replied, and as he 
spoke I observed that his hair had grown very grey of late ; 
“ I have not forgotten it. On Sunday you will complete your 
twentieth year.” 

“It is of that I was thinking,” I said. “And I have also 
thought that a change of scene would be good for me. As 
you know, I have been very wretched since that affair with 
uncle — quite unable to fix my attention on any matter save 
that from which I would gladly divert it. If you can bear the 
expense, and do not object to my leaving home for awhile, I think 
I would like to travel for a few months.” 

My father looked up sharply. “Why don’t you speak 
plainly, and say outright that you are tired of your father and 
long to be with your uncle ? ” he asked. 

“ Because if I said so I should lie,” I retorted warmly ; “ and 
that is what I never did yet. I have told you my opinion of 
my uncle; and I think as well of him now as ever. But that 
circumstance does not diminish the affection and respect I 
bear to you. And I may tell you, that I have aban- 
doned all hope of ever being anything more to Miss Marsh 
than I am at this minute. Indeed, it is to confirm me in 
my present mood that I seek the permission and means to 
travel.” 

“I take it as most unfilial, most unkind in you, Ernest,” 
continued my father in an injured tone, regardless of the 
declaration I had just made, “ that in all these months which 
have elapsed since your uncle was here you have never thought 
proper to ask me to show you the proofs of his perfidy, though 
I volunteered to do so at the time. You stated then (and now 
you reiterate) your belief in your uncle’s innocence. What is 
the inference ? That your father is careless in a matter of the 
utmost gravity, on which the honour of bis only brother wholly 
depends.” 


TO THE WEST. 


133 

“ Surely you don’t wish to open that question again ! ” I 
exclaimed in dismay. 

“Certainly I do,” continued my father. “You tell me you 
wish to travel — at your age a natural desire, which I heartily 
approve and will provide money for. But you cannot leave 
here with my goodwill until you have heard and seen the 
things by which I justify my attitude towards your uncle. 
Having heard and seen them, you will be at liberty to retain 
or abandon your present ideas respecting the robbery.” 

“ There is nothing I am less willing to be convinced of than 
my uncle’s guilt, but let it be as you say,” I assented ; and, 
taking a chair, I seated myself close to the desk. 

My father at once thrust his hand into his pocket, drew 
forth three coins, and laid them in front of me. “ See,” said he ; 
“ there you have three Venetian sequins. Do me the favour to 
examine them.” 

I picked up one of the coins ; it was of gold, and as large as 
a halfpenny, but much thinner. On one side was a representa- 
tion of a shield, with the words sanctvs * marcvs * venetvs + . 
and on the other side a cross, with the words petrvs lani>o ; 
dvx * venetiar . +- . The coins, which were in excellent con- 
dition, were exactly alike. Having scrutinised each very care- 
fully with the aid of a reading glass, I handed them back to my 
father, who paused, as if expecting me to make some comment; 
but I remained silent. 

“Pietro Lando,” said my father, “was Doge of Venice from 
1538 to 1545; so you will agree with me that abundance of 
sequins such as these must have been in circulation in Venice 
when your ancestor, Roger Trueman, was there a century 
later.” 

I nodded assent, and my father continued — 

“I am informed by John Adams (than whom a more faith- 
ful servant never lived) that your uncle, on the first day of his 
return here, seized the opportunity while you and I were pre- 
paring for dinner, to descend, unobserved by us, into the crypt. 
It seems he asked old John for a lighted lamp ; and John, at 


134 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


loss to know what your uncle wanted with it (for it was broad 
daylight, as you know), with pardonable curiosity, observed his 
movements, and was surprised to find that he boldly went 
down into the crypt. So little conscious was old John of 
playing the part of a spy that he soon afterwards followed your 
uncle and found him standing, lamp in hand, in front of the 
Abbot’s Cell, probing between the bricks with a pocket-knife. 
John asked your uncle if he could assist him in any way, who 
thereupon turned upon him in great anger and alarm, cursing him 
for a meddlesome old fool, bidding him go to the devil, and much 
more of the same sort. A little later your uncle gave old John 
two sovereigns, and told him not to think seriously of what he 
had said ; that he liked to express himself emphatically. The 
incident impressed our old servant as a strange occurrence, but 
aroused in him no suspicion of foul play. When, however, on 
the occasion of his visit here wuth his wife, your uncle was 
observed to go down into the crypt a second time, and to remain 
there the greater part of one night, old John feared that some 
sinister design against my interests must be afoot ; yet he dared 
not again follow him, and refrained from reporting the cir 
cumstance to me lest, my brother having gone there with my 
permission, I should resent the imputation which the giving ol 
such information would necessarily imply.” 

Again my father paused, as if expecting me to remark upon 
his narrative ; but I uttered no word, and he went on— 

“On visiting the crypt the next morning John found that 
sufficient bricks had been removed to allow of entrance into 
the Cell, and entering there himself for the first time he 
observed that the place contained several heavy chests. Con- 
cluding that it was merely curiosity which had induced your uncle 
to visit the cryp% John did not go down there again until the 
day before you went to London, when the chests were all 
empty, and he picked up two of these sequins just outside the 
Cell. The third sequin was found by a housemaid in the bed- 
room occupied by your uncle and aunt, and was brought by 
her to me.” 


TO THE WEST. 1 35 

A long silence ensued, which both of us seemed unwilling 
to break. At last I said — 

“And you are satisfied that uncle Sam stole those sequins?” 

“Unfortunately, I am,” he replied, bowing his head. “I 
would to Heaven I could have arrived at some other conclusion. 
But it was not possible; the evidence was too clear, and 
admitted of no alternative.” 

“ The evidence is not clear to me. Might it not be that 
some person other than uncle Sam is the thief — old John him- 
self, for instance — and that he is diverting suspicion of the real 
thief to your brother?” 

“ Ah, my boy, I have thought deeply of all that,” said my 
father, shaking his head sadly. “John Adams is an old man 
who believes he is without a relation in the world. He was in 
your grandfather’s service when he was quite a young boy, 
years before I was born, and has always shown himself truthful 
and honest. He doesn’t want for money, for not many 
months ago he told me that he had £ 600 in the bank, the 
result of his lifelong economy and self-denial. Now that he 
is old, and visibly nearing the close of his life, it is quite im- 
probable that he would go out of his way to rob me of a large 
sum of money which could be of very small use to him. 
Besides, he was always an admirer of your uncle Sam ; he 
frequently asked me for news of him, and expressed much 
pleasure when informed that he was coming to England. And 
then there are the circumstances of the case, all of them 
pointing one way. Did not your uncle himself speak to me 
about the treasure very soon after his return here? — a subject 
not mentioned by anybody for I don’t know how many years. 
And what of the sequin found by Phoebe on the floor of your 
uncle’s bedroom? And haven’t we seen what has been the 
effect upon John of the whole affair? Why, it very nearly 
killed him; and to this day he goes about the house the 
shadow of his former self. He has aged terribly. Dr Thurlow 
was remarking to me only yesterday how rapidly he is breaking 
up.” 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


136 

“ Still I am not convinced,” I said ; “ but you make me 
doubt, which before I did not.” 

My father smiled faintly. “As you will,” he replied. 
“ That is as much as I hoped of you. And now to speak of a 
more congenial subject. I shall be sorry to be without you 
for a few months, though of late we have not been such good 
companions as we once were. However, what benefits you 
can yield me nothing but pleasure; so go, my boy, and peep 
at that world which you have not yet seen, and God be with 
you and protect you. I will impose no limit on the duration of 
your absence, and your means shall be the best I can afford. 
If it is your wish to visit your uncle, I have no objection to your 
doing so ; but I have no message for him.” 

The rest of this interview was more affecting than interesting, 
and needs not to be chronicled here. Perfectly amicable 
relations, similar to what prevailed before I had seen my 
uncle, were re-established between father and son. But 
there now took root in my mind a horrid doubt of my uncle’s 
honesty ; and only those who have experienced it can know the 
pain of discovering a hideous fault in an idol which one has 
set up for one’s self. And Samuel Truman had been to me as 
an idol. His coolness, his wit, his self-reliance, his magnificent 
success, had moved me to admiration of the man. If my 
uncle’s unconcealed love of the power which money confers 
had indeed induced him to rob his poorer brother of a quarter 
of a million sequins, then was I sorry for humanity. 

My father had given me ^250 ; and on that modest sum I 
resolved to travel round the world by easy stages, so as to 
reach home again at the end of six months. My plan was to 
go direct to New York City (I could not make up my mind 
whether I would call upon my uncle or not, but at least I 
would look at the house where he lived, if only for the sake of 
my lingering affection for his ward) ; thence, but with many 
stoppages, across America to San Francisco. From the City 
of the Golden Gate I proposed to cross the Pacific to Australia, 
and after visiting the principal places of interest in that country 


TO THE WEST. 


137 


and in New Zealand, to return direct to the continent of 
Europe. In planning my tour, I was conscious of reversing the 
usual order of an Englishman’s travels ; but a keen desire to see 
New York, the native city and home of Constance Marsh, had 
taken possession of me ; and I resolved to gratify it with as 
little delay as possible. 

For the next few days I was busily engaged in preparing for 
my departure. Fortunately, my personal expenses during my 
four months of moping had been nil, and I now found the 
accumulations of my pocket-money for that period very useful 
in providing additional clothes, and other necessaries for my 
journey, without encroaching upon my .£250. 

My unwonted activity benefited me greatly, and left no 
doubt that in the bustle of the busy world, surrounded by new 
scenes, the depression from which I had so long suffered would 
altogether pass away. 

The eve of my departure arrived, and was spent in quietude 
with my father. All my arrangements had been made, and I 
was to leave for London by the first train from Bury St 
Edmund’s in the morning. My fear that my father would 
again talk of our stolen treasure was ill founded, for he never 
once referred to the matter or mentioned the name of my 
uncle. He regretted that he had been unable to find out the 
whereabouts of Annie Wolsey, which he thought might possibly 
have been discovered had I been in a condition to assist in the 
inquiry he had made (which had not been the case), and 
furnished me with the address in Australia from which my 
grandfather had last written ; “ though,” he added, “ I don’t 
suppose there will be much use in your calling there, for it is 
more than likely that your grandfather is already on his way to 
England.” I took the address and placed it in my pocket- 
book ; but the matter engaged very little of my attention. - 

When the hour of my departure had come, John Adams 
insisted upon accompanying me to the station. He had not 
taken the reins once since his illness, and was still in a very 
weak state ; but all that my father and I could urge in opposi- 


138 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


tion to his wish availed nothing : the old man was obdurate, 
and with some skill turned our arguments against us by admit- 
ting his feebleness, and representing that it was not improbable 
that he might never see me again, but that he particularly 
wished for an opportunity to talk with me once more before I 
went away. The old servant prevailed, and after I had taken 
a most affectionate farewell of my father, we started for Bury 
St Edmund’s. 

As soon as we were on the high road the old man opened 
the conversation by observing — 

“ These be woeful bad times, Master Ernest.” 

“Yes, very bad indeed,” I agreed. 

“ I hear as Sir Thomas Jarvis have four farms on his hands 
which he can’t find tenants for, though he have reduced the 
rents somethin’ wonderful.” 

“ I am sorry for it,” I said. 

“ Yes,” continued the old man ; “and corn at twenty-seven 
shillin’s ! Why, the country will soon be quite ruined if them 
foreigners ain’t stopped sendin’ their cheap produce over here. 
You’ll excuse me what I’m goin’ to ask you, won’t you, Master 
Ernest ? ” 

“ Certainly ; ask me anything you please.” 

“Well, I’m an old man— sixty-six come Michaelmas, though 
some folks tell me I look younger. Your father have been a 
good master to me, and I have saved more in his service than 
I shall live to spend. Knowin’ how bad the times are for 
landlords, and that you’re agoin’ on your travels, I want to 
make you a present,” and the old servant placed in my hands 
a small canvas bag, such as is used by bankers, strongly 
fastened with coarse string. 

“No, no,” I said, returning the bag; “I appreciate your 
kindness very much, but you must really excuse me. It would 
be quite wrong in me to take your money.” 

There is no more potent despot than an old family servant. 
If he fails to work his will one way, he will succeed in another; 
and he has generally many strings to his bow. My protests 


TO THE WEST 


139 


were powerless against the pertinacity of Adams. When, as I 
paced the platform of the station a few minutes later, I opened 
the bag and found that it contained fifty sovereigns, my 
conscience smote me for the uncharitable aspersion I had 
recently cast upon my ben^fartn*-. Though I lost somewhat 
in dignity by accepting this gut, 1 gained a welcome addition 
to my purse. Alas, that these two things should be so often 
inseparable ! 


XVIII. 


NEW YORK CITY. 


Behold a place of swollen Wealth and Pride, 

Where Vice and Want abound on every side ; 

A place to which the work less and opprest 
In thousands fly, seeking the spacious West s 
Which to a chosen few some riches yields — 

The nameless many lie in potters' fields. 

I remember asking my uncle, soon after I first became 
acquainted with him, what sort of place New York was; to 
which inquiry he made the characteristic reply that it was a 
very fine city, with more thieves to the square inch than any 
other place on the earth’s surface. That was all I could get 
my relation to say of it. Baedeker’s account of New York, 
my only reading while on the Atlantic, was more detailed but 
less interesting. Indeed one of the first things to impress a 
traveller is the inadequacy of all descriptions of places, for the 
faces of men do not differ more widely than their ideas of the 
sublime and beautiful, the sordid and hideous. 

If was with great satisfaction that I found myself at last in 
New York harbour. The steamer which had brought me to 
America was of recent construction, well found, swift, and 
luxuriously appointed ; but none the less was I heartily tired of 
the voyage. My first forty-eight hours at sea had been spent 
in a way too common with travellers to need more than passing 
reference. Fear that the ship would go to the bottom soon 
changed to fear that it might not ; and that mental condition 
departed on the renewal of health and appetite. Then came 
the days on deck, spent in watching the restless waves and the 
magnificent rising and setting of the sun, varied by occasional 


NEW YORK CITY. 


141 

studies through a field-glass of some fifteen hundred Russian 
Jews huddled together on the forepart of the deck, the most filthy 
and repulsive mass of humanity conceivable — material destined 
for speedy conversion into American citizens. Bartholdi’s 
statue of Liberty, the magnificent suspension bridge connecting 
the populous cities of New York and Brooklyn, the multi- 
tudinous ships from all parts of the world, and the commodious 
ferry boats keeping up continual communication between New 
York and various points in Long Island and New Jersey, taken 
altogether form undoubtedly one of the great sights of the 
world, quite captivating the stranger, and worthy of all 
admiration. 

My foot first touched American soil at one of the slips on the 
North River, near Courtlandt Street. I at once engaged the 
services of an Irishman, the proprietor or custodian of a 
cumbersome four-wheeled vehicle something like the London 
growler may be supposed to have been in an early stage of its 
development ; and having secured my portmanteau and hand- 
bag, the only luggage with which I was encumbered, bade him 
drive me to Gilsey House in Broadway. Immediately the 
vehicle begun to move I perceived the necessity for its strength, 
for the roads were extremely rough — in some places paved like 
the bye-streets of Norwich and other English provincial towns, 
with stones of the aspect of petrified kidneys. The fine width 
of the avenues and streets, and the height and grandeur of some 
of the commercial buildings, pleased me greatly, and I marvelled 
how the people of so fine a city should consent to have it in 
large measure spoiled by elevated railroads in some of its best 
avenues, and a double line of hideous wire-burdened poles in 
almost every thoroughfare. 

Having secured a room at the Gilsey House, refreshed my- 
self with a bath and a “ good square feed ” (to use the language 
of an American gentleman who sat next to me at dinner), I 
adjusted my watch to American time, lit a cigarette, and 
sallied forth into the street to observe the qualities of the 
people, or whatever else might attract my attention. It was 


142 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


the first time that I had been so far from home, or had so 
much as ^300 in my possession, and I greatly appreciated my 
responsibility, and felt very manly. 

On coming out of the Gilsey House I turned to my left and 
proceeded what the New Yorkers call dowrn town, until I 
reached the region of City Hall Park, Printing Plouse Square, 
and Bowling Green, but where neither park, square, nor green 
may be found. I also went to Castle Garden ; but no castle 
or garden is there — only an immense rotunda where the poorer 
sort of immigrants are received, examined, classified, vaccinated, 
and I know not what besides, preparatory to being despatched 
in thousands to the Western States. Having walked round 
the Federal Building or Post-office, as it is variously called, I 
entered it and covered myself with ridicule by asking a clerk 
who was busily engaged chewing a toothpick if he would oblige 
me with a telegraph message form. 

“ How long have you been in this country ? ” inquired the 
clerk, coolly disregarding my question. 

“What has that to do with the matter?” I asked, rather 
warmly. 

“A lot,” answered the clerk with imperturbable sang-froid. 
“ I guess Jay Gould’s ghost will be seen walking up and down 
Wall Street the night before the country buys the telegraphs. 
Though he is dead, Jay couldn’t lay still and miss such a 
haul. Try Western Union Building, Broadway, left hand 
side.” 

I murmured an apology, and withdrew as hastily as I could. 
I had forgotten that the telegraphs are not a monopoly of the 
United States Government. 

It was scarce midday when I arrived in New York, and 
three hours later I despatched a telegram to my father informing 
him of my safe arrival. The month was September, and the 
fierce glare of the American summer had subsided and given 
place to beautifully clear bright weather which rendered 
walking very enjoyable, especially to one just released from 
the monotony of a sea voyage. Continuing my walk up 


NEW YORK CITY. 


143 


Broadway, I observed that the streets which ran out from it on 
each side were numbered, not named as in the older portion of 
the city about Castle Garden, and my heart beat faster, and my 
mind became confused with resolves and counter resolves, as 
I thought that each step brought me nearer to the home of her 
who had caused me to travel so many miles. What folly is all 
deception, and most of all that which is designed to deceive 
one’s self ! I had told my father that I had abandoned all hope 
or thought of Constance Marsh, and at the moment the words 
were uttered I had honestly believed them to be true ; but now 
that I was within a mile or so of her home, and with nothing 
but my own will to restrain me from calling there, their unreal- 
ity became more and more apparent. Should I call there ? I 
had had no quarrel with my uncle. On the contrary, I had 
championed his cause against my own father ; and that with 
what pain none but myself can ever know, for. no words of mine 
can adequately describe it. No; I would not call there — at 
least not to-day. But there could be no harm in looking at 
my uncle’s house. I would be careful not to be observed, and 
would not suffer any sudden impulse to induce me to break my 
resolve ; if I went there at all it should be after maturer con- 
sideration. Full of these thoughts, I quickened my pace and 
soon found myself at Union Square, where I examined the few 
monuments and rested myself on a seat at the foot of the 
Lafayette statue. I did not remain there for long, but soon 
struck into East Fourteenth Street, and thence into Fifth 
Avenue, continuing along that fine thoroughfare of palaces until 
I reached East Thirty-fourth Street, into which, with much 

trepidation, I turned. No. , a large house built of brown 

stone, was only a few doors off Fifth Avenue. I looked at it 
for a moment from the opposite side of the street, and noticing 
that a canvas shade projected from every window to protect the 
rooms from the sun, I crossed over and observed it more 
particularly. To do so did not engage me more than a couple 
of minutes, and I returned to Fifth Avenue and continued my 
walk up town until I reached Central Park, passing on my way 


144 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


the magnificent palaces of many celebrated millionaires which 
I had not yet learned to distinguish. 

After spending nearly four hours in wandering over Central 
Park, I began to tire. ^/The park is admirably planned and 
well kept, and few strangers will willingly quit it before they 
have seen it all. A zoological collection, to which a part of 
the park is assigned, the deep golden tint of the declining 
foliage, the negro nursemaids with their white infant charges, 
and the numerous languages one constantly hears spoken 
among the people, were sights and sounds quite new to me, and 
interested me greatly. Though there remained much which I 
would gladly have noted, I wisely resolved to return to my 
hotel and get to bed quite early ; but whether on the following 
day I would visit my uncle or leave New York for Chicago I 
could not yet determine. Making my way into that main road 
which cuts Central Park in two, and is really a continuation of 
Fifth Avenue, I began to retrace my steps. It was now nearly 
seven o’clock, and the roadway was fairly well filled with 
carriages occupied by that section of society which had 
already returned from mountain, lake, or spring — for the exodus 
of wealthy New Yorkers from their City in summer is very 
complete. I was walking briskly along when a sight met my 
eyes which set my brain in a whirl, and in an instant threw me 
into all the pangs of jealousy. An elegant open landau, drawn 
by a pair of greys, in which, seated side by side, was the Rev. 
Mr Price and Miss Marsh, passed swiftly by and disappeared 
down the road. 

Oh, the miserable weakness of man ! Or can it be that I 
am different from other men — that I am a feeble embodiment 
of sentiment and impulse, with no well-defined object rationally 
and perseveringly pursued ? It must be so, or human society 
could not endure. Yet am I powerless to help myself. I am 
as I am, and know of nothing in myself for which I should 
reproach myself. 

Utterly depressed in spirit, and with an aching heart, I 
limped back to Gilsey House, wondering whether the dear 


NEW YORK CITY. 


145 


girl whom I loved was already the wife of the flippant English 
cleric I had despised. That might be ; nay, I thought it not 
improbable. Or if not yet, doubtless it was to be. My mind 
was so busy that I did not notice the long distance I had 
walked. Five hours’ walking, with but little rest, and no 
refreshment, immediately following the inactivity inseparable 
from a sea voyage, is not to be undertaken with impunity 
and when I reached the Gilsey House I was so footsore and 
faint that the lift attendant inquired if I was ill. I answered 
that I had over-fatigued myself ; and entering my room, I threw 
myself, as I was, on to the bed. 

After I had lain there about an hour a waiter came to my 
door and informed me there was a gentleman below who 
desired to see me. 

“ A gentleman,” I echoed, starting to my feet. “ Why } 
nobody knows me in New York. What is his name?” 

“ Mr Samuel Truman.” 

“Show him upstairs at once,” I said; but the command 
was unnecessary, for the next instant my uncle entered the 
room. 

“ So I have found you at last,” said uncle Sam, seizing my 
hand and shaking it vigorously. “ I protest, you are the only man 
I would spend half a day in searching for. I called here less 
than an hour after you went out, and supposing you had gone 
to look at the city, I have been driving about New York ever 
since in hope of meeting you. May I ask why it is you have 
come here ? Has anything serious happened at Holdenhurst 
— I mean, beyond what I already know of? — but stay ; you 
look ill. I trust your father is not dead.” 

“My father was well eight days ago,” I replied; “and I 
believe he is so still. As for myself, I have not been very 
well since you left England, and having decided on a trip 
round the world, I have made New York my first halting- 
place. I am pleased to see you, and hope my aunt and Miss 
Marsh are as well as you appear to be.” 

“ Quite so, thanks : quite so. But why is it you have not 


46 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


come to my house? From your valiant defence of me in that 
little affair, I concluded there were no differences between us. 
Was I wrong?” 

“ No, uncle, you were not wrong; but I was diffident of 
facing you and my aunt and ” — I added after some hesitation 
— “ Miss Marsh, after that wretched business : still, I should 
have called on you to-morrow if I could have screwed up my 
courage sufficiently for it.” 

“Well, you are a hypersensitive, goodhearted young cuss, 
and I am tremendously pleased to see you. Put on your hat 
and come along ; my carriage is waiting. I will order your 
luggage to be sent on at once.” 

“No, no,” I cried, catching hold of his arm to prevent him 
touching the electric push ; “ I am not well enough to come 
now. Allow me to stay here to-night, and I will come to 
your house in the morning.” 

“As you please, my boy. But what is it ails you? Upset 
by the voyage, I suppose.” 

“Yes; that and a long walk to-day have quite played me 
out. How did you know I was here ? ” 

“I saw your name in the passenger list of the Umbria 
within an hour of her arrival, and from inquiries among the 
hackmen near where the vessel lies, I learned that a person 
of your description had been driven to the Gilsey House. 
I then came here, and was told you had gone out. Since 
then I have been driving about, looking for you at hazard. 
And this is the afternoon I particularly promised to take Connie 
out ! ” 

“ I am sorry you didn’t do so,” I said. 

“ And Connie yet more so,” added my uncle. 

“ Could she not go out alone ? ” 1 inquired. 

“ Hardly. You see it was like this. Price (persevering 
fellow, Price ! ) had obtained a half consent from Con that 
she would go with him this afternoon for a drive ; and she, 
relying on me to extricate her from the engagement, has got 
left, thanks to you.” 


NEW YORK CITY. 


147 


“And so the Rev. Evan Price,” I said, affecting only a 
languid interest in words which caused my cheek to flush 
and filled me with joy and hope; “and so the Rev. Evan 
Price is still in New York. When is he going to take up his 
new duties in London ? ” 

“Never, I think,” replied my uncle. “At present he is 
forming that job with a deputy while he is editing The 
Investors' Guide , a financial daily paper I have established 
here chiefly for his benefit. It’s run on a plan of my own, 
and I feed it with tips ; but it’s a poor rag. Price is a clever, 
pushing fellow enough ; but he can’t conceal his hand — and 
that, you know, is everything in finance. However, he don’t 
complain, for the Guide produces him more dollars than his 
church paid him pence.” 

“I wasn’t aware that Mr Price had any literary ability.” 

“Well, he hasn’t much, I believe; but if he had, he 
couldn’t employ it to any appreciable extent on a financial 
paper. The Investors' Guide certainly affords a wide field for 
flights of the imagination ; but then, you know, such flights 
must be confined within the narrowest possible limits, and 
expressed with consummate art, if they are to be effective. 
Journalism of every kind is rather flat just now, in consequence 
of a dearth of events of the first class — wars, earthquakes, 
pestilences, panics, and the like. Perhaps you have noticed 
for yourself what a fine crop of big gooseberries was raised 
during the summer, and how sportive the sea serpent has 
been.” 

“ No : I can’t say that I have. I was never a very diligent 
reader of newspapers; but I remember an article which 
appeared recently in one of our English reviews attacking the 
whole class of literature to which journals such as yours 
belong. The motives which the writer attributed to stock- 
brokers and their press representatives were very bad. Surely, 
the Law doesn’t permit such people to rob the public?” 

“ Certainly not ; that is a privilege which the Law reserves 

for itself,” 


1 48 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


“ Does Mr Price find his new duties congenial ? ” I inquired. 
“You will pardon the question, but really they must differ so 
extremely from his life at Holdenhurst Minor that I am 
curious to know.” 

“He appears well satisfied,” replied uncle Sam; “and his 
former calling causes his editorials to be received by people 
outside the financial rings with a trustfulness not always 
warranted by results.” 

“ I dare say he is able to justify the change in his sphere 
of action.” 

“No doubt; he is a moral acrobat, and can stand upon 
his honour.” 

I had forgotten that in New York there is only a brief 
twilight, and was surprised by sudden darkness. My uncle 
rose to leave, and I accompanied him as far as the street. 
It had been arranged between us that I was to call at his 
office in. the Mills Building at ten o’clock the next day, 
whence I was to accompany him to. his house in Thirty-fourth 
Street. Greatly elated by what I had heard, which assured me 
the girl of my heart was not yet won by my rival, I re-entered 
the hotel, consumed an unreasonably large quantity of hot 
buckwheat cakes and coffee, and then retired for the night. 


XIX. 


MRS SAMUEL TRUMAN “ AT HOME." 

Though intricate the social plan, 

His chosen friends reveal the man. 

“ Of course you did not expect to find so many people here,” 
remarked uncle Sam, as he introduced me to Mr and Mrs 
Stuyvesant Wollaston, of Boston. 

“ No, indeed I did not, uncle.” 

"I had forgotten that to-day was Mrs Truman’s first ‘At 
Home ’ since her return from Saratoga. This is Mr Increase 
Mather; and these are his partners, Mr Union Voorhees and 
Mr Austin Gilmer.” 

I bowed, and the next instant there entered Miss Eily 
Kennedy, Miss Bertha Kallmann, and Mr Dennis O’Connor, 
to all of whom I was introduced by my uncle. 

“This is Mr Ellis Thomas; and these ladies, Miss Paulina 
Jackson and Miss Inez Juarrez” — the last a superb beauty of 
the Spanish type, with jet black hair and dark flashing eyes. 

Already my uncle’s guests numbered some seventy persons, 
and I was wondering how many more would come when Miss 
Hattie Christison and Mr Rosenberg were announced. 

“Ah !” exclaimed uncle Sam, as sooiras he caught sight of 
the latter ; “ this is my very special and most dear friend, 
Aaron Rosenberg. Ernest, my nephew, permit me to recom- 
mend that you make this gentleman’s qualities your daily 
study ; but sharpen your wits before you trade with him. 
Should you prevail against him, there will remain but one 


iso 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


merchant worthy of your prowess ; and him you shall know by 
his horns, tail, and trident.” 

“You flatter me much, Mr Truman,” said the Jewish gentle- 
man referred to, bowing very low ; “ and. yourself yet more ; 
for I notice that in all our transactions you invariably come off 

best” 

Further discussion of this matter was prevented by the 
entry of another party of ladies and gentlemen ; and my 
uncle’s drawing-room, one of the most commodious and richly 
furnished salons I have seen, soon contained as many persons 
as it would comfortably accommodate. 

“ Dear Ernest,” said aunt Gertrude, laying her hand gently 
upon my shoulder, “ I am so sorry that I have all these people 
here to-day ; but I had no thought of seeing you until it was 
too late to postpone my ‘ At Home.’ Where have you been 
all day? Your uncle told me you were to meet him down 
town at ten o’clock.” 

“Yes; I met him at his office by appointment, and he 
showed me over the Mills Building and the Stock Exchange, 
and introduced me to some of his Wall Street friends. 
After that we lunched at Delmonico’s.” 

Here my aunt had to leave me to attend to another guest 
who manifested a disposition to speak with her. I crossed the 
room to where the Rev. Mr Price stood talking with Miss 
Marsh — with whom I had not had more than two or three 
minutes’ conversation, and that of a formal sort, immediately 
on my arrival — but he adroitly placed his tall, broad figure so 
as to exclude her from my view, at the same time showing her 
with much apparent interest some jewel he held in his hand, so 
that my purpose was for the present defeated. 

“ Come here, Ernest,” my uncle called out ; and I at once 
went to where he was sitting with Mr Rosenberg and Mr 
Dennis O’Connor, the three apparently being engaged in 
some close argument. “ What do you think we were talking 
about?” 

“ Can’t say,” I relied ; “ some matter of business, no doubt.” 


MRS SAMUEL TRUMAN “AT HOME.” 1 5 I 

“ Now there you are wrong. It is only on rare occasions we 
speak of business out of the street — I mean Wall Street. No ; 
we were discussing Shakespeare — whether any one of his plays 
is so much better than the rest as to entitle it to be considered 
his masterpiece ; and if so, what particular play deserves such 
distinction.” 

“ You must remember,” said Mr Rosenberg, “ that I know 
Shakespeare only in Schlegel’s translation.” 

“ And that I have not read a line of Shakespeare for about 
twenty-one years,” added uncle Sam. 

“ Hamlet is his finest play,” I ventured to observe. 

“ Good ; that is what I said,” quoth Mr Rosenberg 
triumphantly. 

“Well, I don’t think so,” said uncle Sam energetically, 
“and am inclined to accept Hamlet’s definition of himself, that 
he was a dull, muddy-mettled rascal who didn’t know his own 
mind, or who had very little mind to know. The whole play 
is nothing more than an ingenious sermon against the lazy 
habit of taking an afternoon nap, with interesting examples of 
the evils which arose out of a particular instance.” 

“You have seen Hamlet performed?” I inquired, astonished 
at my uncle’s extraordinary opinion. 

“ Oh yes, several times ; by Irving in London, Barnay in 
Berlin, and Booth in New York. And some years ago I saw 
it performed by a company of strolling players in a mining 
town in Colorado. The performance was given in a barn, and 
in the interval between the first and second acts Hamlet and 
Ophelia danced to a jig-like melody played on a tin whistle by 
the King, while Polonius and the Queen sold whisky to the 
audience.” 

“ How horrible ! ” I exclaimed, with undisguised disgust. 
“ It would positively make me ill to see the finest production 
of human genius presented in such a fashion.” 

“ Do you regard Hamlet as the finest production of human 
genius ? ” asked uncle Sam. 

“ Undoubtedly. And for the second best production of 


52 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


human genius I should turn to another play by the same 
hand.” 

“ Well, I’m glad to find you’ve the courage ot your opinions ; 
sometimes I’ve felt disposed to kick you for your invariable 
agreement with my remarks. Now I think Timon of Athens is 
Shakespeare’s greatest play.” 

“ Timon of Athens I why, it is not much read, and seldom or 
never performed. Surely you are jesting, uncle. Why do you 
prefer it ? ” 

“Because it teaches a lesson which many men spend the . 
greater part of their lives in learning, and not a few fail to 
learn at all.” 

“What lesson is that, Mr Truman?” inquired Mr Dennis 
O’Connor. 

“ That no matter how great have been the services of a man 
to his country, no matter how exceptional and varied his 
ability, if he be without money the world is either actively 
against him, or, what is worse, ignores him utterly. In Timon 
of Athens Shakespeare shows that notwithstanding the multi- 
plicity of creeds professed by men the world over, Money 
is the idol worshipped by the vast majority of mankind ; and 
that too with a devotion unknown in the tabernacles of the 
hypocrites. Let him who doubts my assertion study the faces 
of the people in a church and the people in a bourse, and, 
having compared them, note which set betrays most earnest- 
ness of purpose.” 

“You observe other things besides prices current, Mr 
Truman,” remarked Mr Rosenberg. 

“Too exclusive devotion to an art is not conducive to 
success in it. I consider all that passes before me,” rejoined 
uncle Sam. 

“ If that is so, your prot'egk , Price, will never become an 
American,” said Mr Austin Gilmer, who had been attentively 
listening to this conference. “Have you noticed, Truman, 
how desperately hard that fellow labours to imitate the accent 
and expressions of New Yorkers ? ” 

“Oh yes, I have observed him,” replied uncle Sam. “His 


MRS SAMUEL TRUMAN “AT HOME.' 


153 


efforts to Americanise himself fail as ridiculously as the efforts of 
some Americans to Anglicise themselves. The transformation, if 
it comes atall, must come unsought, and is always ofslowgrowth.” 

“ I should know Mr Price for an Englishman if I met him 
in the moon,” remarked Mr Mather. “ As for his efforts to 
Americanise himself, they are worth so little to him that they 
have altogether escaped my notice.” 

“You are as heavy and dull as your Puritan ancestor,” said 
Mr Gilmer to Mr Mather. 

“As you please, Gilmer,” replied the gentleman whose 
powers of observation were thus rudely aspersed; “but my 
dulness has permitted me to notice what marked attention Mr 
Price pays to Miss Marsh ; and that is a subject on which I 
have heard nobody speak. Look at them now ! By Jove, he 
is putting a ring on her finger ! ” 

“Wrong again,” said Mr Gilmer; “he is taking one off.” 

I looked to the corner where Mr Price and Miss Marsh 
were standing apart from the numerous small groups into which 
the assemblage was broken up. The last speaker was right. 
To my utter mystification I saw Mr Price withdraw a ring from 
one of the fingers of Miss Marsh’s left hand, a proceeding 
against which she seemed to protest. But my rival succeeded 
in obtaining the ring, though apparently not without offending 
the lady ; for she turned from him in a chilling manner, and, 
walking across the room, joined her sister. 

What could this mean ? It looked like — nay, it must have 
been — a lover’s quarrel. And yet how strange ! Surely no 
lady, and least of all Constance Marsh, would object to return 
to a gentleman a ring which he no longer desired her to wear ; 
and it is equally certain no gentleman would be so ungracious 
as to press a lady to return a ring which she desired to retain. 
I could make nothing of it, and by the blank looks of my uncle 
and his companions I concluded they were equally at a loss. 

“What do you say to that, Truman?” asked Mr Mather, 
after a pause. 

“Nothing,” answered uncle Sam, so coldly that nobody 
qtred to pursue the subject turther, 


HOLDENHVRST HALL. 


154 

A minute or so afterwards our little group broke up, Mr 
Rosenberg and Mr O’Connor going over to Miss Kennedy and 
Miss Juarrez, while uncle Sam sought Miss Marsh, leaving me 
with Mr Gilmer and Mr Mather. 

I watched my uncle very closely, and noticed that he questioned 
his sister-in-law. She related something to him ; and while she 
was speaking her mood seemed compounded of vexation and 
amusement, for at one moment she would frown and stamp 
her little foot impatiently, and at another break out into a merry 
laugh. Uncle Sam’s face, at first serious, gradually relaxed into 
a broad smile as he listened, and indicated a man relieved 
of some anxiety. 

When he returned he asked me to take a seat by my aunt. 
“She would like to speak with you,” he said, “and now is a 
good opportunity; see, she is alone. Go over there and sit 
down by her ” — a surprising request, for I knew that my uncle 
had not exchanged a word with his wife for at least an hour. 
However, I was only too pleased to obey him ; and for the 
next ten or fifteen minutes I enjoyed an interesting chat with 
my amiable young aunt ; which occupation, agreeable as it was, 
was yet more agreeably interrupted by Miss Marsh, who came 
and sat down by her sister. 

“ Come here, dear,” said aunt Gertrude, as she made room 
for her sister on the settee ; “ where have you been all this long 
time ? ” 

“ Oh, hiding away from that horrid man,” replied Miss Marsh 
in tones of unmistakable annoyance. Her face was flushed 
and her lips slightly parted, and she was fanning herself with a 
vigour suggestive of anger. 

‘ Hush ! here is a friend of Mr Price,” said aunt Gertrude, 
looking at me. 

“ No, not at all,” I asserted ; “ I know very little of him, and 
don’t desire to know more.” 

The sisters exchanged glances. “ I am glad of that for your 
sake,” said Miss Marsh. “ He bothers me dreadfully whenever 
he comes here, and to-day he has made me downright cross.” 


MRS SAMUEL TRUMAN “AT HOME.” 


155 


“ How was that ? ” inquired aunt Gertrude. 

“He has a diamond,” said Miss Marsh — “a large beautiful 
stone, I believe, but I haven’t properly looked at it— which he 
is going to have set in a ring for me. I told him plainly that I 
had all the jewellery I required, and would prefer not to accept 
it ; but he wouldn’t heed my refusal, and asked me twenty 
times to lend him one of my rings as a guide to the size of my 
finger. Finding I really wouldn’t do so, he caught hold of my 
hand unexpectedly and drew from my finger that little dress ring 
set with seven pearls which poor dear ma used to wear.” 

Oh, how I would have gloried in going to the Rev. Mr Evan 
Price, and after demanding and receiving back the ring he had 
taken from Miss Marsh, administering a condign thrashing to 
that relapsed humbug. But such a course was not to be 
thought of, for Mr Price could have thrown me out of the 
window with the utmost ease. 

“Never mind; he will return it to you, Connie,” said my 
aunt. 

“No doubt; and the other ring that I don’t want with it. 
But I know what to do with it,” added the young lady, smiling. 
“ Sam has promised to return it for me, and he expects to get 
a lot of fun out of it.” 

“ What a pity it is that so well-looking a gentleman as Mr 
Price should bestow his attentions where they are not appre- 
ciated, especially when there are so many young ladies here quite 
unnoticed. Paulina Jackson has been all the afternoon seeking 
an opportunity to speak with him,” remarked aunt Gertrude. 

“ Oh, help her to accomplish her wish for my sake, Gertie, 
there’s a dear ! ” exclaimed Miss Marsh. 

Mrs Truman rose and crossed the room to where Miss 
Jackson was standing alone toying with her fan, and at once 
entered into conversation with that lady — a tall, handsome 
blonde of twenty or thereabouts, who neutralised her natura 
advantages by an air of conscious beauty. 

“ When I parted from you at the dcor of my uncle’s house 
in London, I did not think it would be so long before I should 


HOLDENHURST HALL, 


I 5 6 

see you again, Constance,” I said, seizing my first opportunity 
to speak with her alone. 

“ Nor I,” replied Miss Marsh, looking down. 

“ But it has been absolutely unavoidable ; I could not help 
myself.” 

“ Could you not have written ? ” she asked, suddenly turning 
her clear blue eyes full upon me. 

“ Hardly,” I urged ; “ at least not in a way that would have 
presented matters fairly to you. Of course, you heard of the 
trouble between my father and his brother?” 

“ I heard there was some trouble between them, and that 
all intercourse was broken off almost as soon as it had been 
renewed ; but I have no idea what it was about.” 

“ I will gladly tell you the whole miserable story ; but not 
now — it is too long. Meanwhile, you think as well of me as 
ever, do you not ? ” I asked with great earnestness. 

“ I can’t say, really. I am not quite sure that I do.” 

“ But you will when I have acquainted you with my 
experiences. When will you give me an opportunity to do 
so?” 

“ These people will be gone by seven o’clock, and then I 
will gladly attend to anything you wish to say. My sister tells 
me you are going to stay in your uncle’s house for some time.” 

“ Oh, thank you ever so much ! Yes, my uncle has kindly 
invited me to stay with him for a while. Look, here he 
comes.” 

“ You are very quiet, Ernest,” said uncle Sam, bustling up to 
me. “ Do you wish your countrymen to lose their reputation 
for gallantry ? Come with me and I will introduce you more 
particularly to some of the ladies.” 

“I think I would prefer to remain here, thank you, uncle,” 
I answered quietly. 

“ Oh, you would, would you ? Well, then, I’ll stay with you ; ” 
and as he uttered the words my uncle seated himself at my 
side. “ That tali dark young lady you see talking with Mrs 

ollaston is Miss Inez Juarrez, daughter of a rich Paraguayan 


Mrs samuel Truman 11 at home: 


i5 7 


mine-owner who was shot by the despot Lopez in 1870; she 
enjoys a pension from the Paraguayan Government, and owns 
a silver mine in her own right. That stout young lady talking 
with Mr Rosenberg is Miss Bertha Kallman, heiress of the 
largest brewer in America ; her father’s brewery near Cincinnati 
is like a small city. The lady on the right of them, with your 
aunt and Mr Price, is Paulina Jackson ; her father is a banker 
in Chicago. That shrill-voiced little miss sitting next to Mr 
Thomas is Eily Kennedy, daughter of Michael Kennedy the 
Democratic Congressman. Of course, you have heard of Mike 
Kennedy, even in England ; he is a tierce devil, the terror of 
the opposite party, and the torment of his own. Nothing 
political can be done here without the goodwill of Mike 
Kennedy — and for that, you know, he has to be paid.” 

“What sort of man is Mr Rosenberg?” I asked, desiring 
to exhibit to Miss Marsh my indifference to all other ladies. 

“ A stockbroker,” answered uncle Sam. “ He is a German 
Jew by birth, but has lived in New York nearly all his life. 
Without exception, Rosenberg is the sharpest fellow I have 
ever encountered. My admiration for his talents is unbounded. 
In matters of business I approach him only with extreme 
caution. Mather, Voorhees, and Gilmer are also stockbrokers; 
they operate together, but the combination can’t hold a candle 
to Rosey. O’Connor edits the New York Thug , and Ellis 
Thomas lives at his ease on an enormous property his father 
left him; he don’t engage in any business. Mr Stuyvesant 
Wollaston is Professor of Cosmogony at Harvard University, and 
Mrs Wollaston lectures on Women’s Rights.” 

“ You have not told your nephew about Miss Christison,” 
said Miss Marsh, smiling. 

“ Ah, how stupid of me ! ” exclaimed uncle Sam ; “ I quite 
forgot her. Miss Christison is a doctor of medicine, and has 
practised surgery in I don’t know how many hospitals. By 
her skill she prolonged for several years the worthless life of a 
wealthy cantankerous asthmatical old maid, chief pillar of the 
Women’s Emancipation League, who bequeathed her fifty 


nOLDENHURST HALL. 


I 5 8 

thousand dollars a year for so long as she remains unmarried ; 
should Miss Christison marry, the money which produces the 
income goes in bulk to the League.” 

I looked at the lady spoken of. She was not more than 
thirty, and her face wore a quiet, thoughtful expression. 

“ You look sympathetic,” observed my uncle, who was 
watching me. 

“ Yes, I am sorry for her. The condition imposed by the old 
lady is absurd, and I am surprised Miss Christison accepted 
it, especially as she has a profession and is clever in it.” 

“ Would you have taken the money on such terms, Con ? ” 
asked uncle Sam maliciously. 

“ Don’t ask riddles,” said Miss Marsh, rising. “ See, our 
company are preparing to leave.” 

“ So they are,” said uncle Sam, consulting his watch ; “ I 
did not think it was so late. Con, my dear, oblige me by 
assisting your sister to bid these people farewell, and excuse 
me to all inquirers. Ernest, it wants but little more than an 
hour of our dinner-time, and there is much you must tell me 
before then. Come with me.” 

I followed my uncle out of the room and up the staircase, 
and so on to the roof of the house, which to my astonishment 
I found was flat, and provided with two bamboo rocking chairs, 
a table, a hammock supported on poles, and a canvas screen 
for protection from the sun when necessary. It was a beauti- 
fully clear evening, the sky being one expanse of unbroken blue, 
and the temperature not uncomfortably warm. Though still 
quite light, the electric lamps with which the Brooklyn bridge 
is festooned were already aglow, and showed like strings of 
pearls stretched at great height across the East river. I stood 
for some moments contemplating this sight and the great city 
generally, until recalled to myself by a tap on my shoulder. It 
was uncle Sam, and he motioned me to a seat, at the same time 
handing me a cigar. Having lighted one for hinroT, he sank 
wearily into a chair, placed his feet upon the table, a id said — 

“ I want you to tell me all you know about those sequins.” 


XX. 


THE OLD STORY. 

How big with fate that hour in woman s life. 

When called to choose if she will be a wife 
With all her joys and pains : or live a maid 
And, neither blest nor blessing, slowly fade! 

“This is worse than I feared. My judgment has misled me; 
I was too precipitate.” 

Such was the comment of uncle Sam on my story of the 
sequins. I had told him without reserve, and as accurately as 
I could, all that I had read, heard, seen, and experienced in 
respect of those fatal coins. He listened with deep attention, 
uttered the words I have set down, and then fell into a reverie 
in which he remained so long that at last I reminded him that 
we should soon be expected downstairs. 

“ Ernest,” said my uncle, without noticing my observation, 
“ from what you tell me I am now assured that your father 
was robbed of a quarter of a million sequins five or ten days 
before I left Holdenhurst ; and I am equally positive that the 
thief is none other than that lying hypocrite Adams. That I 
mentioned the legend of Roger Trueman’s treasure to your 
father the evening I first saw you is true ; and I believe it is 
true that I again mentioned it when I went with him through 
the crypt a day or so later. The statements of Adams that he 
provided me with a lamp, that he afterwards found me in the 
crypt and spoke with me there, and yet later knew me to 
spend the greater part of a night in that place, are simply lies, 
which I could disprove to his utter confusion if only I had 


1 60 HOLDENHURST HALL. 

an opportunity to cross-examine him. As I live, I swear I 
have been in the crypt of Holdenhurst Hall once, and once 
only, since I first set foot on this continent ; and then, as I 
have said, I was accompanied by your father. Whether 
Adams has confederates or not puzzles me to decide. It is a 
great pity that so much money should be lost to your father. 
If only he had told me all that I have just learned from you, 
we had still been friends, and his sequins might easily have 
been recovered; now one is impossible, and the other im- 
probable.” 

“ If Adams is indeed the thief,” I said, “ it is clear that he 
has confederates. How about’the sequin which a housemaid 
told my father she found in your bedroom ? ” 

“If Adams is the thief!” exclaimed uncle Sam bitterly. 
“ But, of course,” he added, after a pause ; “ however well you 
may think of me, you cannot at present know positively, and 
of your own knowledge, as I do, that the account of my 
doings supplied by that damned Adams is lies, lies, nothing 
but lies. Why should that old man, whom I have never 
offended, so glaringly perjure himself in throwing suspicion of 
a crime upon me if not to shield himself? With regard to the 
sequin in the bedroom, it was placed there that it might be 
found and taken to your father. O Ernest, your father’s want 
of acumen has played the very devil with his affairs ; his 
patrimony alone has saved him from starvation. If he were 
here, no man would give a dollar for any service he could 
render. I must be growing like him if by to-morrow morn- 
ing I have not thought out some plan which will checkmate a 
plot conceived and worked by a senile Suffolk thief. Let us 
talk no more of this matter to-night. Follow me.” 

My cheeks tingling with indignation which I did not dare 
to express, I followed my uncle down the stairs. Thoroughly 
vexed and pained as I was to hear my dear father so pitilessly 
disparaged by his brother, I was not at all surprised at uncle 
Sam’s bitterness. Circumstances seemed now to show that 
my father and I had both fallen victims to the clumsy fraud 


THE OLD STORK 


t6i 


of an ignorant old man. But the situation had now become 
hopeful. If uncle Sam’s theory was correct, as I hoped and 
believed it might prove to be, reconciliation of the brothers 
was not only possible but highly probable, my uncle’s recent 
declaration to the contrary notwithstanding. 

As soon as we entered the brilliantly lighted dining-room 
uncle Sam assumed his airiest manner, in no way indicating 
the serious thoughts which had occupied his mind a minute 
or so before. All the company, except Mr Rosenberg, had 
departed ; and my aunt and Miss Marsh, who were dressed for 
dinner, appeared very charming in white silk robes trimmed 
with old lace, each lady wearing a girdle from which depended 
a superb fan ornamented with feathers and diamonds. 

I shall not attempt to describe either the apartment or the 
decking of the table, being well assured of my inability to do 
so. Suffice it to say that both were as artistic and luxurious 
as the best artists in those things at the end of the nineteenth 
century can provide for men of lavish expenditure. The 
changes I had experienced during the last two or three weeks 
were already beginning to tell upon me; and it was with 
somewhat less than my usual embarrassment that, responding 
to my uncle’s invitation, I took a seat at the table. 

“ I wish you would tell me where you got this wine from,’ 
remarked Mr Rosenberg, setting down his half-emptied glass 
of champagne. 

“I imported a hundred dozen direct from France,” said uncle 
Sam. “ They are part of the vintage of some season between 
the reigns of Charlemagne and Louis Philippe, and were left 
by the latter monarch in the cellars of the Tuileries when he 
gave up the monarchical business. I bought them in Paris last 
year of a Jew who told me so ; and who would ask for better 
evidence than that ? ” 

“ It is extremely good,” said Mr Rosenberg. 

“ The evidence or the wine ? ” inquired uncle Sam. 

“The wine,” replied Mr Rosenberg, emptying his glass; 
“ but the duty is very high ; it is expensive to import.” 


HOLDENHVRST HALL. 


1 62 

“ Yes, it is, if you don’t know the Collector of the Port,” 
agreed uncle Sam. “Ernest, my boy,” he continued, “allow 
me to recommend you to drink five glasses of this champagne. 
I guess that will be quant . suff. to make you relax somewhat 
the restraint you usually impose on your tongue, and cause you 
to care as little for the world as probably the world cares for 
you — a highly desirable condition for anybody.” 

“ Do just as you please, dear Ernest,” said my aunt, “ and 
pay no attention to your uncle’s nonsense.” 

“To think that an Englishman should suffer ‘his wife to 
publicly discount him in this manner, and not mind it much ! ” 
exclaimed uncle Sam. 

“ Do Englishmen in England beat their wives, Mr Truman ? ” 
inquired Miss Marsh, addressing me; “I have read somewhere 
that they do.” 

“ No, Miss Marsh,” I replied ; “ no man ever beats his wife 
either in England or elsewhere. And I don’t think more 
wives are beaten in England than in other countries containing 
as many people.” 

“ Do you know, Mr Truman,” said Mr Rosenberg, directing 
his remarks to my uncle, “ I have often thought that the 
quick perception and gaiety which distinguish Frenchmen is 
due in great measure to their habit of drinking champagne, 
just as the stolid, dull stupidity of Englishmen is doubtless 
owing to the beer they consume.” 

“A very good Roland, friend Rosey. I find nothing to 
object to in your theory except that it is an old one. Did not 
the English nobleman who declined to relieve a starving poet 
on the ground that it would unfit him for the composi- 
tion of elegies by making him jovial entertain a similar 
notion ? ” 

“I cannot say; it is very little that I know of English 
literature,” replied Mr Rosenberg. “ But really it has always 
seemed strange to me that Englishmen, who inhabit a country 
close to France, with a climate not greatly different from it, 
should make no wine.” 


THE OLD STORY. 1 63 

“The people of England make nothing but speeches and 
mistakes nowadays,” explained uncle Sam. 

The severity of my uncle’s strictures on the people and 
institutions of his native country had been an enigma to me 
for as long as I had known him. Most Englishmen when at 
home find delight in abusing the climate, laws, and customs of 
England ; though usually they compensate for their ungracious- 
ness as soon as they cross the seas, and, with equal want of 
discrimination, praise everything English. I expressed myself 
to this effect, adding that I supposed uncle Sam, by long 
residence and successful enterprise in America, had come to 
regard England as a foreign country, and that the bad treat- 
ment he had lately experienced there had quite extinguished 
what little sentiment bound him to his native land. 

“ No ; it is not that,” said uncle Sam. “ The fact is, the 
English people are no longer a nation — they are the fools of 
words, the slaves of cheapness. England is now the refuge 
of the lowest types of European humanity, the sink for the 
surplus products of the world. At the same time that English- 
men supply funds for the expatriation of their own race, they 
tacitly suffer a civil invasion by hordes of destitute aliens, such 
as a nation with a territory as vast as that of the United States 
refuses to admit. As for Free Trade, that empty shibboleth 
wherewith Englishmen delude themselves, they do not enjoy 
it, nor has it ever existed. It takes at least two nations, each 
admitting goods without duty, to make a free trade — a 
spectacle the world has not yet seen. Englishmen are free to 
buy, but not free to sell ; their policy, therefore, is misnamed. 
It should be called Free Importation. The markets of England 
are as freely open to the goods of a New York merchant, who 
contributes nothing towards the expenses of that country, as 
they are to the goods of a heavily taxed native — which sounds 
very generous and disinterested. But how much longer will 
Englishmen be able to afford such a policy? When I was 
last in London I had occasion to visit the docks, and walked 
there from Aldgate — which is cheaper and quicker than 


HOLDENHVRST HALL 


164 

traversing a Russian Jewish province, but otherwise not mucli 
different. On my way I passed, among other notable things, 
two abandoned match factories, and a long procession of 
unemployed men carrying banners inscribed with Socialist 
cant ; while at the docks I saw several stacks of roughly 
hewn coffins, each closely packed with matches, which had 
just been landed (duty free, of course) from a Swedish vessel. 
Can the politico-economical system under which such things 
are possible be a good one ? ” 

“ What dreadful things you talk about ! ” exclaimed Miss 
Marsh. “I declare you sometimes give me the horrors. 
Have you made up your mind yet whether you will go to 
Mrs Van Rensselaer’s reception at Tarrytown ? Mr Rosenberg 
tells me he will be there.” 

“ Does he ? Iam glad of it. He will oblige me by taking 
care of you and Mrs Truman, for I shall be unable to leave 
New York to-morrow.” 

Mr Rosenberg, in token of his acquiescence with this 
arrangement, gracefully inclined his head till the point of his 
long nose almost touched the lowest stud of his shirt front. 
After the remark by Miss Marsh, I did not care to re-open 
my conversation with uncle Sam; and for a few minutes 
silence prevailed. 

As soon as dinner was over, we adjourned to the drawing- 
room, with the exception of uncle Sam, who betook himself to 
the roof to smoke, saying that he would prefer to be alone as 
he had a troublesome matter to unravel, and could not 
accomplish his purpose without consuming three cigars. “ It 
is now,” said he, glancing at his watch, “ a few minutes past 
nine, and I may not see you again before morning, so good- 
night and pleasant dreams.” 

Dear old uncle Sam! How well I knew the subject on 
which he intended to exercise his thoughts, and how ardently 
I hoped a renewal of his friendship with my father would 
result from his deliberations ! 

Whether her womanly instincts had perceived the attraction 


THE OLD STORY. 


165 

which her sister had for me, and her kindliness of heart 
prompted her to gratify me, or that it so befell of accident, 
I know not ; but to my great satisfaction, on returning to the 
drawing-room my aunt at once entered into conversation with 
Mr Rosenberg, leaving Miss Marsh and me to pass our time 
as best we could. 

What an evening was that ! Why, I was almost happy ; 
and really believe I should have been quite so but for the 
shadow of the estrangement between the two brothers whose 
lives were bound up with mine. 

The conversation of lovers, so delightful to the parties 
immediately concerned, is notably uninteresting to everybody 
else ; and it is not my intention to bring upon myself that 
ridicule which men past the amorous phase of their career 
so mercilessly and inconsistently mete out to their fellows 
engaged in it by recording in this place my conversation with 
Constance Marsh on that memorable occasion. Suffice it to 
say that in telling the tale of the sequins, which I seized this 
opportunity to relate, I greatly excited her sympathy. My 
long silence was forgiven as soon as its cause was understood, 
and it was clear to me that I had established myself in her 
favour more firmly than ever. 

‘‘I understand you will be from home all to-morrow, ”1 observed. 

“ Yes,” replied Miss Marsh. “ I am going to Tarrytown. 
Mrs Van Rensselaer has just returned from Europe, and is to 
give a big reception.” 

“Where is Tarrytown, and who is Mrs Van Rensselaer?” I 
inquired. 

“Tarrytown is a beautiful village on the Hudson, about 
twenty-five miles from here. Mrs Van Rensselaer is the 
widow of Martin Van Rensselaer, the railroad king. Every- 
body has heard of old Martin Van Rensselaer, who died two 
years ago worth fifty million dollars.” 

“ Yes, I think I have read something about him somewhere,” 
I said. “Tell me, Connie dear, will the Rev. Mr Price be 
there?” 


HOLDENHURS 7 HALE 


1 66 

“ I don’t know, I’m sure. I hope not,” replied Miss Marsh. 

“ I am quite unable to express my delight that you entertain 
such a hope. May I beg you will increase it by telling me 
why you hope he may not be there ? ” 

“Because he is a tease, and monopolises my time when 
he has the opportunity to do so,” confessed Miss Marsh. 

“If the Rev. Mr Price were to ask you to become his wife, 
what would you say ? ” 

“ The same as I have said before.” 

“ What ! has he asked you to marry him ? ” 

“ Dear me, yes. Lots of times.” 

“And what has been your answer?” 

“ No.” 

“ Dear Connie ! And if / were to ask you that question, 
what would your reply be ? ” 

“ The same.” 

“ Do you like me no better than Mr Price ? ” 

“ O yes ; ever so much better.” 

“Then who is it you prefer to either of us?” 

“ Myself.” 

“ Connie,” I said, taking one of her little hands and holding 
it tightly in both of mine, “ I don’t mind confessing to you 
that I was vain enough to hope your decision might be 
different. I would not ask you to marry me while I am poor ; 
but all the world knows — and no place furnishes more 
examples than this city — that wealth is a thing which passes 
from hand to hand and is as often gained as lost. What it 
I were rich enough to keep my wife in the manner in which 
you have lived your life ? ” 

“ I was not thinking of money ; my father left me more of 
that than I can possible require in any circumstances. I 
don’t think I’m much inclined to marry anybody.” 

“ You may change your mind. Some young ladies who 
have talked as you talk now have afterwards become admirable 
wives. If that should be your case, what sort of man could 
you tolerate as your husband ? ” 


THE OLD STORY. 


1 67 


“Not Mr Price.” 

“ Dear Connie ! And me — could you tolerate me?” 

“ I think perhaps I could i 1 I tried.” 

“May I rest assured that, should you ever marry, it is my 
wife you will become ? That provisional promise would make 
me happy.” 

“ Take it then and be happy, you silly boy.” 

“ Dearest Connie, I must seal this compact with a kiss.” 

“Not now, Ernest dear, not now. Hush! Leave go 
of my hand ; here comes my sister and Mr Rosenberg.” 

















XXI. 


ANNIE WOLSEY FOUND. 

Though thou art truant, still thou hast my love ; 

Though thou hast erred, yet will I not reprove. 

I think not of thy fault, but of my child ; 

Then let us Jwain once more be reconciled. 

Though Constance Marsh had not promised to be my wife 
(indeed that could hardly have been, for I had not asked her 
for any such promise), her undertaking to accept me for hei 
husband should she ever marry filled me with satisfaction. 
Her professed indisposition for marriage I regarded as a 
profession and nothing more — the bantering playfulness of 
a high-spirited, noble-minded girl. I had not lacked oppor- 
tunities to observe that the ambition of every woman is 
marriage; and that the few, the very few women who deny 
this assertion with words, illustrate its truth in the failure of 
their lives. The girl of my choice was intensely feminine, her 
nature unwarped by any of the pernicious humbug of woman’s 
so-called rights, concerning which a shrieking sisterhood of the 
malformed, the neglected, and the deluded spoil much good 
paper and rend the air in many lecture halls ; and I did not at 
all doubt that I had now merely to raise my fortune to the 
level of hers to enable me to claim her hand and find my claim 
allowed. Love will lightly attempt tasks from which reason 
would shrink, and the difficulty of effecting the necessary 
change in my condition had no terrors for me, or I was too 
dazzled by the prospective prize to perceive them. 

With an unquestioning faith in my uncle’s perceptive powers, 


ANNIE WOLSEY FOUND i 


t6g 

I was now more than ever disposed to unreservedly accept his 
theory of the robbery of the sequins, and I resolved to neglect 
nothing that might tend toward their recovery. Filled with 
this idea, I arose early the next morning, resolved to discuss 
with him ways and means expedient for me, and was surprised 
to learn that he had arisen before me and was engaged in his 
study. My mental condition was such that it appeared to me 
impossible that another man could have affairs comparable for 
importance with the matter upon which the possession of my 
dear Constance more or less depended, and I did not in the 
least scruple to interrupt my uncle. I found him seated at 
his desk, writing with marvellous rapidity. “You come early,” 
he said, looking up, but without for a moment ceasing to write. 
“ Take a chair. I will talk to you presently.” 

Seeing that he was busy, I did not answer, but sat down as 
requested and listened to the industrious scratching of my 
uncle’s pen. Presently the writer ceased, folded his papers, 
placed them in an envelope, on which he bestowed a vigorous 
blow at the sealing place, then threw himself back in his chair 
and folded his arms. He appeared to know perfectly why I 
had disturbed him at that early hour, though I had not yet 
spoken to him ; and with his accustomed bluntness he at once 
grappled with the business he conceived I had come upon. 

“ With regard to those sequins,” said uncle Sam, “ I find no 
cause to revise the remarks I made about them last night. 
Adams, the butler, or whatever it is you call him, stole them ; 
of that I don’t entertain the smallest doubt. He may have 
been assisted by another of the Holdenhurst servants, or by 
one of Knight & Faulkner’s men; but it is improbable. I 
have never heard it suggested that the old man was a thief ; but 
I well remember his miserly habits of more than twenty years 
ago. Miserliness once acquired is never shaken off, but in- 
tensifies with time. What can be more reasonable than to 
suppose that when Knight & Faulkner were making the 
alterations in the Hall, the treasure was accidentally revealed 
to Adams?— who would be quite safe, he would think, in 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


170 

concluding that its existence was unknown to your father or 
any other member of our family from the mere fact of it being 
where it was. Many people who can look with equanimity on 
piles of bank-notes are strangely moved at sight of a heap of 
gold coins, and find the infernal stuff quite irresistible. This I 
believe was the case with Adams ; and I base my opinion on 
his going so much in and out of the crypt about the time the 
robbery is supposed to have taken place, his strange finding of 
you there, his illness immediately afterwards, his lies to 
incriminate me, and his gift to you of fifty pounds. That last 
move of the old man was to salve his conscience rather than 
to benefit you. That conscience is a vile thing and troubles a 
great many people, I know well ; for I had a conscience 
myself some years ago. It was a great nuisance. However, 
I take only a remote interest in all these things, and but for 
your sake, don’t care two straws what became of the sequins. 
Your father has treated me too badly for friendship between us 
ever to be renewed ; but I confess I should be gratified to 
learn that his frightful blunder has been demonstrated to him. 
This is my position ; and if you intend to try to recover the 
treasure — good ; I will help you with advice and money. Or 
if you don’t think the amount worth the trouble, good again ; 
and we will agree not to speak or think any more of the 
matter.” 

At another time my uncle’s declaration would have depressed 
me, for certainly there was but one thing I more ardently desired 
than his reconciliation with my father. But I was not now 
disposed to be easily depressed. On the contrary, to my eyes 
all things had put on a rosy hue, and I not only looked for 
the speedy possession of a quarter of a million sequins, and of 
Constance Marsh as my wife, but also for the patching up 
of the miserable feud of which uncle Sam had just spoken. 
Lovers’ thoughts are so extravagantly fantastical that I was 
oblivious of the facts that the sequins might never be recovered, 
or if recovered were not mine ; that Constance Marsh had not 
promised to marry me ; and that my uncle had just .repsped 


ANNIE WOLSEY FOUND. 


1 7 


the impossibility of renewing his former friendship with my 
father. In this cheerful mood I answered that I had fully 
determined to follow up the clue he had suggested, and was 
prepared to accept any assistance he might think necessary 
and was prepared to offer. 

“ Very good,” said uncle Sam. “The case is a simple one. 
You have not to deal with an accomplished thief, but an 
ignorant old miser, who was overcome by a large temptation 
and has already manifested a symptom of remorse. The world 
knows nothing of its greatest thieves; their success prevents 
that. Your object, as I understand it, is to get a grip on those 
sequins ; and mine merely to establish the fact that I had no 
hand in abstracting them. Am I right ? ” 

“ Quite right, uncle.” 

“ YV ell, you have but to follow my directions, and I venture 
to predict you will recover every sequin before three weeks are 
over your head. Return at Once to Holdenhurst, and for a 
few days closely observe every act of Adams ; but be extremely 
cautious that the old man doesn’t become conscious you are 
watching him. Talk to him freely; but make no attempt to 
sound him on any point which bears, however remotely, on 
the matter in hand. It is not unlikely your vigilance will be 
rewarded by valuable knowledge. About a week after your 
return send the old man on some errand which will keep him 
away from Holdenhurst for an entire day, and during his 
absence thoroughly examine his room and everything that is 
his. Don’t scruple to turn out his drawers and boxes — his 
suspicious conduct fully justifies the act. Should you fail to 
find the sequins, when the old man returns, seize him by the 
throat and, forcing him against the wall thus ” — here uncle Sam 
suddenly arose and, grasping me tightly round the neck with 
his left hand, pushed me backwards against a large cabinet 
with such vigour that I was almost strangled, and my white tie, 
which I had spent twenty minutes in adjusting, hopelessly 
spoiled — “ tell him you possess the clearest possible evidence 
that he has stolen the contents of ten chests belonging to 


172 


fiOLbENHURS T HALL, 


your father ; that if he immediately restores what he has stolen 
he shall be forgiven, but that if he dare refuse or even demur 
you will at once hand him over to the police and charge him 
with robbery. Be intensely earnest in your manner, and let 
your subsequent acts accord with your words. If you don’t 
find the sequins while Adams is away, your accusation on his 
return will throw him into a deadly terror ; he will fall on his 
knees like a penitent villain in a melodrama and give you 
information worth five hundred and sixty thousand dollars. If 
you find the sequins, you can afford to deal less harshly with 
the old man.” 

“Yes,” I gasped, as soon as my uncle relaxed his grasp on 
my throat. 

“ Remember, you must not say a word of all this to your 
father beforehand,” continued uncle Sam. “ Your father is a 
fool, and a fool is always a marplot. Before you actually 
undertake the task, it is as well you should realise that success 
may amount to little more than failure. Your father may 
appropriate the whole of the sequins the moment they are 
recovered (for they are rightly his), give you half-a-crown for 
your pains, and send me a two-line apology on a postal card. 
Perhaps you may reasonably hope for more generous treat- 
ment ; but it’s hard to say. Nothing is so difficult as to fore 
cast the acts of an incompetent, stupid man.” 

Though my uncle’s bitterness against my father was easy to 
understand, I found every exhibition of it hard to bear. It 
was not in my power to defend the man who had the greatest 
claim upon my gratitude, and whom I still preferred before all 
other men, so I remained silent. Something of the dejection 
his words had caused must have appeared in my face, for uncle 
Sam, taking my hand in his and holding it tightly, continued 
in a kindlier tone, while he regarded me steadfastly to observe 
the effect his words produced — 

“If you cleverly carry out my suggestions, our family 
differences will be mended, if not ended. What in England is 
thought to be a comfortable fortune will be rescued from the 


ANNIE WOLSE V FOUND. 


17 3 


clutch of a contemptible old crank, who has gone wrong at 
the accidental sight of a heap of gold, and your father and you 
— or one of you — benefited to that extent. The friendship of 
your father I don’t want (I am sorry to say anything painful to 
you, Ernest, but such is the truth); yet, I repeat, it would be 
a satisfaction to me to know that he had been brought to a 
knowledge of the wrong he has done me. These things it is 
in your power to effect ; but to do so you must be cool and 
cautious, yet bold. Observe closely, deliberate profoundly ; 
and, your conclusions once reached, act promptly and with 
vigour. Clothe your reserve in many words. When I wish to 
avoid making assertions, I talk most. Your task is not a hard 
one, and you have at least an average share of ability. If you 
had been my son, I would have subjected you to a training 
which would have enabled you to engage with confidence in a 
matter so simple and easy as this.” 

“ I am sorry you have no son, uncle,” I remarked. 

“Reserve your sorrow for greater need,” answered uncle 
Sam quickly, “and tell me, are you disposed to follow my 
advice ? ” 

“Yes, uncle, I am,” I answered firmly. “I believe your 
theory is correct, and I will do my best to carry out all you 
have proposed.” 

“ Very good. Your prompt decision augurs well for your 
success. When will you return ? ” 

“ The sooner the better. Say next week,” I suggested. 

“ Why so long delay ? ” asked uncle Sam. “ The man is old 
and feeble, and whenever he dies no one will be surprised. 
Every day that passes tells against us. Let me see. This is 
Tuesday, and the Umbria leaves on Thursday ; better let me 
book you a passage by her.” 

Thoughts of leaving my Constance almost as soon as I had 
found her again, and of immediately renewing the monotonous 
life on an Atlantic liner which only two days before I had 
abandoned with so much thankfulness, were far from agreeable 
to me ; but I was now almost as eager as my uncle was to bring 


174 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


the affair of the sequins to a termination, and therefore assented 
to this proposal also. 

Uncle Sam was much gratified, and if he had not expressed his 
satisfaction in words (which he did very explicitly) the merry 
twinkle of his bright eyes and his pleasant smile would have 
sufficiently denoted it. He not only undertook to secure my 
passage to Liverpool in the Umbria, but insisted upon my 
accepting, then and there, a gift of one thousand dollars, which 
sum he handed to me in the form of thirteen United States 
bank-notes — seven for one hundred dollars each and six for fifty 
dollars each. “ There,” said he, as he selected them from the 
thick packet of greenbacks which filled his pocket-book, “put 
those thirteen bills in your pouch. To-day is the thirteenth of 
September, and I dine at Knickerbocker Cottage to-night with 
the Thirteen Club. I have been a member of that club ever 
since its formation ; but though I was not superstitious when I 
joined it, I have become so since; because, in reserving 
important affairs for the thirteenth of the month, in defiance of 
the old superstition, I observed that those same affairs 
invariably turned out well. And so you will find in this case.” 

As my experience widened my shyness decreased, and at 
this point I informed uncle Sam of the impression which his 
fair sister-in-law had made upon me, and of the provisional 
promise which she had so graciously given me — a declaration 
which not long before I should have lacked the courage to 
make. My uncle listened with an amused smile, and when I 
had finished speaking, he remarked that he had observed almost 
is much for himself. 

“The man who wins Constance Marsh,” said uncle Sam, • 
“will have a wife wise, healthy, and wealthy. You will observe 
that I place these time-honoured qualities in the order in 
which they ought to be esteemed, but are not ; the second is 
largely dependent on the first, and the third wholly so. I 
wish you success in your amorous enterprise. I am the young 
lady’s guardian ; but I tell you frankly, I will neither assist nor ’ 
retard your suit. I have seen something of the disaster usually 


ANNIE WOLSEY FOUND. 


175 


consequent on the interference of a third party in such matters. 
As society is now organised, marriage offers no scope for a 
broker ; the business, to be successful, must be arranged by 
the principals themselves.” 

“ This is as much as I could reasonably hope for,” I said. 
“ I was afraid you might resent my presumption.” 

“ Dismiss that fear, my boy,” said uncle Sam, consulting his 
watch, “ and come with me to breakfast. I am twenty years 
older than you, and find myself no longer able to live upon 
sighs, kisses, and love missives. I am as hungry as a prairie 
wolf, and would prefer a porterhouse steak to the caresses of 
the most beautiful odalisque that ever reposed on cushions in 
the gorgeous East.” 

I followed my uncle downstairs into a room which I then 
entered for the first time, and was disappointed to observe 
that breakfast was laid for two. On inquiring the cause of 
this, I learned that aunt Gertrude and Miss Marsh, in prepara- 
tion for what they expected would prove a fatiguing day, had 
ordered breakfast to be taken to them in their private rooms. 
On the table lay a letter addressed to me in my father’s hand. 
My father had promised to write to me immediately he 
received a telegram announcing my arrival in New York; and 
I had arranged that his letter was to be forwarded to my 
uncle’s house by special messenger the moment it was received 
at Gilsey House ; but I felt sure at the time that my father 
would write to me within a day of my departure from home, so 
its presence on my uncle’s breakfast-table occasioned me no 
surprise. On the contrary, I had been thinking that I might 
possibly hear from Holdenhurst this morning. 

“Well, what news from Suffolk ?” asked uncle Sam as he sat 
down, for his quick eye had perceived the English stamp 
and the familiar writing on the letter which lay on the 
table. 

“ I shall be pleased to tell you the moment I know,” I 
replied, tearing open the envelope. And then the following 
lines, and all that they implied, were revealed to me. 


1 76 


ItOLDENtfURST HAtU 


Holdenhurst Hall, 

Bury St Edmund’s, 3rd September 18—. 

My dear Son, — When you arranged with me the particulars 
of your tour, I voluntarily stated that I had no objection to 
your calling upon your uncle when you were in New York, 
should you feel disposed to do so. 

You have been gone from home but one day, and in that 
short time circumstances have arisen which induce me to write 
to you at once, urging you very earnestly not to do so, or to in 
any way concern yourself with my brother or his doings. 

About four hours after you left here I was startled by your 
grandfather calling upon me. As you know, I had not seen 
Mr Wolsey for four years, and during that time he has been 
round the world. I was greatly surprised by this visit, and 
much impressed by your grandfather’s venerable aspect; he 
appears quite an old man now, and his hair and beard are 
almost white. His story is strange and painful. After being 
deluded by cunningly devised false clues for four years, he has 
at last found his daughter. She is at present staying with her 
little child at Bournemouth, but never remains at one place 
for more than a month or so, and lives chiefly on the Continent. 
I understand also that she goes to America once a year. The 
man who induced her to leave her situation in London, and 
who has since supported her in affluence, is no other than your 
uncle, Samuel Truman. Your grandfather has brought his 
daughter to admit so much ; but despite his entreaties, Annie 
remains loyal to the father of her child, and can by no means 
be induced to terminate her relations with him. She begged 
her father so hard not to inform Mrs Samuel Truman of her 
existence, and threatened with so much earnestness to take her 
own life should he do so, that he at last gave her his word that 
he would not. 

Your grandfather is staying with me, and is more contented 
than he was now that the mystery is made plain to him. Such 
also is my own case. Any shadow of doubt which may have 
lingered in my mind as to the Venetian treasure is now dis- 


ANNIE WOLSEY FOUND . 1 77 

pelled. A man who will resort to villainy to accomplish one 
purpose will not scruple to employ it for another. 

Do not neglect this injunction, my dear boy, but write as 
soon as you can, telling me where you have been, and how 
you have employed your time. When your money falls as low 
as fifty pounds let me know of it, and I will endeavour to send 
you some more. — Your affectionate father, 

Robert Truman. 

“ What is the matter now ? ” asked uncle Sam. “ Have you 
any bad news ? You look ill.” 

“ Yes, l have rather bad news,” I answered confusedly, “ but 
I cannot tell you about it.” 

“ Why not ? You promised you would show me your father’s 
letter.” 

“ Yes, that’s true. Shall I do so ? ” 

“ Of course. Stand by your word, whatever happens,” 

I handed my uncle the letter. 


XXII. 


TWO CONFESSIONS. 

“ Love ! What is love ? Who can the word define ? 

Sound, your conclusion ; yet perchance not mine.” 

Our neighbour hears us. “Both are wrong,” he cries, 

“Throw lexicons aside ; they’re stuffed with lies. 

What each think’s love is love to each, of course ; 

A hast’ning snail seems tardy to a horse. 

To some, love is of all things most refined ; 

To others — matter of another kind.” 

As soon as uncle Sam had read my father’s letter he got up 
from the table and stood by the window for a minute or two, 
gazing at the street. Presently he resumed his seat, and 
handing me the letter, asked very quietly what I thought of it. 

This question, coming from such a source, greatly embar- 
rassed me ; and my embarrassment was increased rather than 
allayed by my uncle’s unexpected behaviour in these peculiar 
circumstances. Instead of indignantly repudiating the charges 
brought against him, or admitting their truth by some outward 
and visible sign of depression, he contented himself with merely 
asking my opinion of the matter, and while he awaited my reply 
sugared his coffee and buttered his toast with as great an air 
of indifference as if he had asked my opinion of the weather. 

“ I don’t know what to think ; my brain is in a whirl. I 
no sooner surmount one difficulty than I am confronted by 
another. Are the statements in my father’s letter true ? ” 

“You are too discursive,” said uncle Sam. “ Let us settle one 
thing at a time. If you don’t know what to think I can tell 
you— at least so far as regards the subject of that letter. To 


TWO CONFESSIONS. 


*79 


allow your brain to get into what you call a whirl whenever 
you receive unwelcome intelligence is bad ; you must conquer 
that weakness, or you will always be the sport of events. Of 
course, as soon as you surmount one difficulty, another difficulty 
confronts you ; it was ever so with every man, and you will 
find the process continue until you are confronted by Death — 
the last difficulty, not to be surmounted or evaded by any of 
us. As for your direct question, I unhesitatingly assure you 
that the statements in your father’s letter (except where he 
seeks by a spurious analogy to associate me with the loss of 
his sequins) are perfectly true ; and not only are they true, but, 
as I regard the game of life, they are perfectly justifiable.” 

This declaration shocked me. I had never before met with 
anybody who entertained such unscrupulous opinions, or w r as 
so honest in the expression of them. 

“Most people,” continued uncle Sam, “would infer from 
that letter that I was guilty of great treachery to your grand- 
father Wolsey, whereas the very reverse is the case. I loved 
his eldest daughter (she who afterwards became your mother), 
and my suit was approved of by no one more than by William 
Wolsey. But when later on your father bent his glances in the 
same- direction, that same William Wolsey discouraged my 
visits to his farm, favoured the visits of your father, and not 
long afterwards coerced his daughter into marrying him, well 
knowing that she had promised herself to me. And why was 
this? Not because of any fault in me, real or alleged, but for 
that sovereign quality in the new suitor — ownership of a couple 
of thousand Suffolk acres, forsooth ! ” 

Here uncle Sam paused and laughed scornfully. Presently 
he continued : 

“ It was that circumstance which first gave my mind a 
cynical turn, and induced me to devote myself to the acquisi- 
tion of money, which I conceived was the prime mover of our 
kind. Twenty years’ experience has confirmed the opinion 
then formed. I have not gone out of my way to avenge the 
wrong old Wolsey did me ; but when about four years ago I 


i8o 


HOLDENHURS 7 HALL. 


accidentally found an opportunity to gratify myself with the 
possession of one who greatly resembles the girl I used to 
ramble with in the fields and lanes of Holdenhurst, I did not 
restrain myself by any consideration for the man who had 
treated me so badly. Why should I? And after all, what 
harm has been done ? Miss Wolsey is well, and enjoys a large 
annual income which I have settled upon her in terms I am 
powerless to revoke. That she has secluded herself from her 
father as long as possible has been her own wish, and was 
always a matter of indifference to me. She had no occasion 
to beg her father not to acquaint my wife with his newly- 
acquired information ; he could tell Mrs Truman nothing 
which she does not already know.” 

Uncle Sam’s sophistry was very fascinating to me. Systems 
of reasoning which in others I should have denounced as 
illogical and absurd, when presented in his words and with 
the ease and charm of manner for which he was distinguished, 
seemed to lack none of the essentials of truth. At first it 
appeared to me monstrous that a man of my uncle’s means and 
experience should use his great powers to induce a young girl 
to abandon her only relative, and, in defiance of laws human 
and divine, made or adopted in the common interest, become 
his wife in all but name ; more especially — if anything may be 
allowed to qualify for good or evil such an act — when he had 
a veritable wife against whom I do not think he could have 
alleged one fault. But my uncle’s way of stating his case 
obscured these considerations, and led me rather to think of 
the perfidy of my grandfather Wolsey, which was the origin of 
the trouble, and to marvel how my father could have accepted 
for his wife a woman whose love he had not fairly won. That 
the statement was true I had no doubt whatever, for uncle 
Sam had very effectively alluded to the circumstance when he 
denounced his brother, and the latter had suffered it to pass; 
without challenge. Another, though an entirely different con- 
sideration, afforded me much gratification, and that was the 
promptness with which my uncle had admitted the truth of the 


TWO CONFESSIONS. 


181 

charge now brought against him, which contrasted strongly 
with his strenuous denial of having had anything to do with the 
missing sequins, and afforded an additional proof of his 
innocence of that affair. 

“What do you purpose doing respecting this little affair?” 
inquired uncle Sam after a long pause. 

My mind was made up, and I answered without hesitation : 
“ I will go to England in the Umbria and carry out the plan 
you have suggested. By that means, I hope, I shall convince 
my father that he has done you an injustice, and he will readily 
agree that our friendship shall remain undisturbed. Should I 
fail to connect Adams with the robbery of the sequins, then I 
will assert my individual right to unrestricted action ; for I am 
nearly of full age now, and could respectfully and regretfully 
refuse to obey my father in this matter on the ground that his 
command is unjust and unnatural.” 

“ Bravo, Ernest ; well resolved. I didn’t think you had so 
much grit in you. I would not have advised you in this case ; 
but had I done so, I could have pointed out no fairer or better 
line of action. So much for that. Put your letter in your 
pocket and get on with your breakfast. What can I help you 
to?” 

“ I have not much appetite this morning, thank you, uncle. 
Another cup of coffee and I have done.” 

“If it is because you are in love that you can’t eat, I will 
excuse you ; but not if it is because matters in which you take 
an interest don’t go so smoothly as you could wish. It I had 
suffered my appetite to decline every time one or other of the 
scores of matters in which I interest myself ran off the line I 
had marked out for it, I should have been dead of starvation 
years ago. Exert your imagination, and — forgetting all about 
sequins, dishonest retainers, village beauties, and whatever else 
occupies your thoughts — bring yourself to believe that man 
was born chiefly for the consumption of food — which is 
certainly true of the greater number of us. Imagination will 
work wonders. I have seen a penniless beggar confined in an 


182 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


insane asylum who has believed that he was a king, and been 
far happier in that belief than many a specimen of the real 
article surrounded by intriguers and fawning thieves. Now I 
have a proposal to make respecting this steak. You will 
observe that it is a very small piece — that it does not weigh 
much more than a pound. Well, get outside of that steak and 
this piece of bread, and I will give you a letter of introduction 
to Mrs Van Rensselaer, which will enable you to spend the day 
at Tarrytown with Connie for your companion ; refuse me, 
and I will give such a letter to your friend, Mr Price, who 
yesterday asked me for it.” 

The task imposed was a formidable one ; but then the prize 
with which success was to be rewarded was so delightful, and 
the calamity assigned to failure so awful, that I addressed my- 
self to it with great courage. But my gastronomical powers 
were not equal to the strain to which it was proposed to subject 
them, and before my task was half completed I pushed my 
plate from me and gave up the attempt in despair. My uncle, 
who had been watching me, generously forgave my short- 
coming, and remarking that I ran better when spurred, invited 
me into his study, where he wrote as follows on the back of 
one of his address cards : — 

Dear Mrs Van Rensselaer, — The young gentleman who 
will hand you this is my nephew, Mr Ernest Truman, of 
Holdenhurst, near Bury St Edmund’s, England. He arrived in 
America a day or so ago, and we are his only connections here. 
Kindly receive him to-day, introduce him to your friends, and 
tell him all he don’t know — as far as you can. 

Very faithfully yours, S. T. 

Sept. 13, 18 — . 


“ There,” said uncle Sam, as he handed me the card, “ that 
will do the business for you. Mrs Van Rensselaer owes me 
some gratitude for helping to settle her late husband’s affairs, 
and she will be very pleased to entertain you. Con and your 

















































TWO CONFESSIONS. 


183 


aunt will be delighted when they learn you are to accompany 
them. I have no doubt you will find a sail up the Hudson to 
Tarrytown very enjoyable. My yacht will be ready to leave 
Grand Street Hook at eleven, and it is now barely half-past eight. 
I have much to do to-day, and am going down town at once, so 
you must amuse yourself for the next couple of hours in any 
way you can. Hadn’t you better send your father a telegram 
informing him of your intention to return in the Ui?ibria ? I 
am going to telegraph to England myself, and will despatch 
your message with mine.” 

I hastily scribbled in my pocket-book, “Truman, Holden- 
hurst, Bury St Edmund’s, England — Letter received. Return- 
ing in Umbria. Ernest,” — and tearing out the leaf handed it 
to my uncle, who having expressed his approval of it, wished 
me a pleasant day and disappeared down the stairs. A minute 
afterwards I heard the street-door close, and looking out of the 
window saw my uncle walking rapidly towards Fifth Avenue. 

I turned from the window with very different feelings than 
were mine when I watched my uncle’s departure from Holden- 
hurst. Then I perceived no ray of hope for the accomplish- 
ment of my desires; now my path seemed clear and easy. 
The girl whom I loved had gone so far as to declare that she 
preferred me of all men, and would never marry unless with 
me, while her powerful guardian, who had given abundant 
evidence of his prejudice in my favour, had just assured me 
that he was not opposed to my suit. But the estrangement of 
my father and uncle, my uncle’s unfortunate connection with 
my youthful aunt Annie, and above all that disobeyed parental 
command which I carried in my pocket, were as three black 
clouds threatening to obscure the sunshine of my happiness. 
Now that uncle Sam was gone, his defence of his relations with 
Annie Wolsey seemed painfully strained and insufficient, and I 
could not but regard the circumstance of his mesalliance with 
her as another and formidable difficulty to be encountered in 
seeking to effect the reconciliation of the brothers. My 
conscience whispered that my right and proper course was to 


1 84 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


obey my father ; but I was too deeply in love with Constance 
Marsh to dare to imperil my present amicable terms with her 
by offending my uncle ; and the twofold result would 
necessarily follow that course. When momentous decisions 
have to be made by the morally weak (and such was my condition 
at the period of which I write), then also comes suffering ; for 
it is the quality of weakness to shrink from pain, even when 
conscious that in so doing it not only postpones but accumu- 
lates disaster. Pondering these things, I slowly returned to 
my room to prepare for the excursion to Tarry town — which 
luckily I had not done before, for my uncle’s practical illustra- 
tion of the way I was to deal with old John Adams would have 
wrecked the toilette of a Suffolk farm labourer. 

At half-past ten aunt Gertrude and Miss Marsh entered the 
drawing-room, where I awaited them in some trepidation ; 
for I knew that my uncle had not seen either of these ladies 
since he had arranged for me to accompany them to Tarrytown, 
and it was quite possible that they might depart without me, 
or that my company might be less agreeable to them than my 
uncle had represented. These fears were at once dispelled by 
aunt Gertrude, who, coming forward to greet me, assured me of 
the pleasure with which she had just learned that I was to be 
their companion for the day. 

I expressed my thanks, and at the same time my surprise 
that she should know of this, for I was sure that she could not 
have seen her husband since I saw him leave the house. 

“Oh, you don’t quite understand,” said aunt Gertrude, 
laughing ; “ my husband is now at his office, and he has just 
been talking to me by telephone.” 

Both ladies were dressed ready to depart, and looked very 
charming; particularly Miss Marsh, who stood near to the 
open door, giving sundry pats and twitches to a refractory rose 
which could not be easily induced to repose in the bosom of a 
white muslin dress to the satisfaction of its mistress. As I 
observed this beautiful but silent girl waiting while her sister 
and I were talking, I did not think, and could not then have 


TWO CONFESSIONS. 


I8 5 

believed, that it was she who had moved uncle Sam to furnish 
me with an introduction to Mrs Van Rensselaer. That know- 
ledge did not come to me till long after. A wife is lavish of 
confessions from which a maid would shrink. 

The journey to Grand Street Hook in my uncle’s carriage 
did not occupy many minutes. Arrived there, we at once 
went on board my uncle’s yacht — a small steamer, exquisitely 
designed and superbly fitted, a floating palace in miniature. 
The hour appointed for our departure had not yet arrived, but 
steam being up, and the captain understanding that our party 
was complete, the gangway was at once raised, and the Iroquois 
slowly steamed out from among the trading steamships by 
which she was surrounded and bore round into the North 
River. 

September and October are the most pleasant months in 
North America. Then the fierce glare of summer has subsided, 
and the air is dry, clear, and exhilarating, and the foliage 
assumes a beautiful golden tint. In such a season a journey 
up the Hudson River is a very delightful experience. The 
American Rhine, as the Hudson is sometimes called, is 
inferior to the German Rhine in nothing but historical associa- 
tions, though even in this respect it is not destitute. Precipitous 
banks, rising to a height of from three to five hundred 
feet, for the most part thickly wooded, among which here and 
there nestles a picturesque village or elegant mansion standing 
in its own highly cultivated grounds, enchant the eyes of the 
stranger for many miles along its course. Speaking for myself, 
I must say that I remember few if any days in my life upon 
which I have experienced greater pleasure than was mine on 
the particular thirteenth of September of which I now write. 

That the companionship of my Constance (I had already 
once or twice so addressed Miss Marsh and she had not 
demurred to the style) had much to do with my satisfaction 
must be immediately admitted. Aunt Gertrude, with admirable 
tact, had begged Constance and me to excuse her continuing the 
perusal of an interesting book which she had brought with her, 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


1 86 

and we (Heaven bless our charity !) saw fit to graciously grant 
the desired pardon, upon which she took a seat at the aft, and 
vouchsafed us no further notice until our arrival at Tarrytown. 

The few hours remaining to me in America were rapidly 
wasting away, and I felt that I could not tell Constance of my 
resolve to return at once to England without at the same time 
informing her of the reason for my sudden departure. This I 
now proceeded to do. Having already acquainted her with the 
story of the sequins, I did not have to again go through that 
wearisome recital, but merely related uncle Sam’s view of the 
case, and the advice which he had given me. 

“And must you really leave for England so soon as the day 
after to-.morrow ? ” asked Constance, looking up at me reproach- 
fully. “ Why, Ernest dear, you have only just come here ! ” 

“ I am sorry I must,” I replied ; “ but I will stay in England 
only so long as it takes to recover those sequins, and will then 
return to you by the first steamer.” 

“ Why, you may never recover them ! How much are the 
old coins worth, all of them, wherever they are?” inquired 
Constance. 

“Almost a hundred and seventeen thousand pounds,” I 
answered. 

“ Oh, I don’t understand that,” said Constance ; “ tell me in 
dollars.” 

“ Five hundred and sixty thousand dollars, exactly.” 

“Well, let them go, and trouble no more about them ; they 
have already caused mischief enough. I haven’t so much money 
at my banker’s, but if you will abandon the pursuit of those 
sequins I will get Sam to sell out a little of my stock to-morrow, 
and give you a cheque for that amount. Will that satisfy 
you?” 

“ Satisfy me!” I exclaimed in amazement. “ My dear 
Constance, how shall I answer you? Your generosity takes 
my breath away. I want those sequins for one reason only, 
and but for that one special reason I don’t think I would 
interest myself about them at all ? or certainly not much. If 


TWO CONFESSIONS. 


1 87 


only I could get those coins, their possession would give me 
courage to ask you to become my wife, courage I must always 
want while you are rich and I am poor. Love of you it is 
chiefly, dear Connie, which takes me back to England ; and 
also the honour of my uncle Sam which, as you know, is bound 
up with the recovery of the sequins.” 

“And if you recover them, you say you will return,” 
remarked Constance quietly. 

“ Yes, dearest Connie ; and then my fate will rest with you.” 

“ Am I to understand that if you fail to get that money I am 
to forget you ? ” 

“No, do not do that in any case; but I think I will be sure 
to get the sequins.” 

“ Oh, Ernest, dear,” said this artless girl, pressing my hand ; 

come to me when you will, with money or without money, 
I am always yours. I can love none but you.” 


XXIII. 


AT TARRYTOWN. 

Fear not the worst, but rather hope the best ; 

Be last to censure and the first to praise ; 

The good and evil always co-exist, 

And no man lives without a share of both. 

Pleasant hours pass quickly. When the Iroquois entered 
Tappan Bay, I was surprised to find that it was two o’clock. 
Aunt Gertrude — who had not spoken to her fellow-travellers 
once during the journey, nor, so far as I was aware, in any way 
observed them — now laid her book aside and came towards us. 
Constance and I — the former very quiet since her declaration 
of affection for me, as if abashed by that spontaneous avowal — 
also rose from our seats and went to meet her, and together we 
three paced the deck, aunt Gertrude pointing out to me where 
Piermont lay, and the course of the beautiful Palisades, and ex- 
plaining to whom belonged the tasteful mansions with which 
the river banks were now thickly dotted. In this delightful 
situation, with one of these charming sisters on either arm — the 
more youthful and silent my very own, the other my near rela- 
tion, wife of the man whom I most admired — I was intoxicated 
with my happiness, and felt how unworthy I was of my place — 
an image of Suffolk clay set between two jewels. 

The Iroquois was now slowly approaching a landing-stage at 
the foot of a very steep bank, on the summit of which stood the 
Rensselaer mansion — an elegant structure of wood, with three 
verandahs continued quite round the building. The bank was 
cut into a series of terraces, each a carefully cultivated flower- 


AT TARRYTOWN. 


189 

garden, connected by white marble steps flanked with copies 
of classical statues. All the doors and windows of the house 
appeared to be open, while dispersed about the grounds was a 
numerous party of ladies and gentlemen, some of whom were 
endeavouring to make out the Iroquois by the aid of lorgnettes. 

“ See ! ” exclaimed aunt Gertrude, with almost childish 
glee ; “ there are Mrs Van Rensselaer and Mr Rosenberg on the 
top terrace endeavouring to salute us.” 

Connie handed me the lorgnette through which she had just 
been looking, and I saw distinctly the two persons of whom 
aunt Gertrude had spoken. Mrs Van Rensselaer was a lady 
not much short of fifty, tall, stately, with clear-cut, regular 
features, and Mr Rosenberg, the curve of whose nose could not 
easily be mistaken, was by her side waving a white handker- 
chief. 

Our journey, which had been a slow one, was now over. A 
large party was assembled on the landing-stage to receive 
us, including the hostess, Mr Rosenberg, and several persons 
whom I remembered having seen at aunt Gertrude’s At Home. 
Mrs Van Rensselaer having assured me that any relation of 
her late husband’s particular friend, Mr Samuel Truman, was 
very welcome to her house, we proceeded to pass upward 
through the terrace gardens, our hostess and aunt Gertrude 
leading the way, with Miss Marsh and I immediately following. 

I had now obtained that for which I had so passionately 
longed and so often despaired, and the result was a buoyancy 
of spirit and a degree of courage which I had never before ex- 
perienced. The confidence which is born of success was strong 
within me, and that awkward shyness of manner which had all 
my life marked me out for ridicule fell away from me as it were 
by magic. 

Once or twice in our upward progress towards the house did 
we turn to look at the scene below, which was as beautiful as 
mind can conceive. The top terrace reached, we lingered 
for several minutes, and I expressed my admiration without 
reserve. 


HOL DENHURS T HALL, 


190 

“ I am always much gratified, I am sure, when an English- 
man admires American scenery,” said Mrs Van Rensselaer. 
“ Some parts of your Thames, I think, are very charming and 
peaceful, but none so bold as this. My friend Mr Dennis 
O’Connor has brought an English gentleman with him to-day, 
who had a great desire to view the river from this point, whose 
praise is as unqualified as yours,” and the speaker pointed 
with her fan to the lower verandah, where sat Mr Dennis 
O’Connor and Mr Evan Price, the latter puffing a cigarette and 
watching us with intense interest. 

This little incident, which not many hours before would 
have greatly disturbed me, added to my gratification. Now, I 
thought, will I demonstrate to my rival that his suit is hopeless, 
and compel him to retire from the field. 

“ Connie,” I whispered, “ my own little wife that is to be, do 
you see who that is sitting there ? ” 

“Yes, dear,” she answered softly. 

“ He will find an opportunity to talk with you to-day, I am 
sure. You will know what to tell him ? ” 

“Trust me,” said my faithful Constance, returning the pres- 
sure of my hand. 

“ I will,” I responded. 

Never shall I forget the delights of that long autumnal day. 
It is true I was sometimes obliged to surrender my Constance to 
her lady friends ; but for the most part I contrived to keep her 
to myself, and was surprised to observe that beyond a formal 
bow of recognition when we first entered the house, Mr Evan 
Price ignored us both. I suspected that that transformed 
cleric was reserving what he had to say until he perceived an 
entirely favourable opportunity, and acquainted Constance 
with my suspicion, who agreed with me. These remarks were 
made in the blue drawing-room, where the greater number of 
Mrs Van Rensselaer’s guests had assembled just as evening 
was closing in. 

“ If you leave the drawing -room by the door,” said Constance, 
“ and return again at once by the verandah, you can sit at that 


A 7 TARRYTOWN. 


191 

small table at the back of that bamboo screen. From where 
Mr Price is now sitting, he can see your departure but not your 
return. If he comes to me, you will hear our conversation 
and can reappear to interrupt it at any moment you please. 
Give me this opportunity, dear Ernest, to set your mind at rest 
once and for ever as to whether I care anything for Mr Price 
or not.” 

“ My dearest Connie,” I exclaimed fervently, “ I don’t doubt 
your faithfulness the least in the world ; nothing you can say 
or do can increase my perfect trust in you. But I will do as 
you suggest.” 

And the next minute I rose from my seat and walked away. 
To carry out the plan proposed by Miss Marsh occupied more 
time than we supposed it would. In the first place, it was 
necessary for me to pass along three sides of the Rensselaei 
mansion, which was of great extent, in itself the work of at least 
five minutes ; but I failed to accomplish it in less than double 
that time in consequence of meeting my aunt and Mrs Van 
Rensselaer, who detained me with questions. However, I 
escaped from these ladies as soon as I decently could, and 
re-entering the drawing-room from the verandah, took up my 
position as arranged. Mr Evan Price was already at the side 
of my Constance. The expression of his face betrayed the 
earnestness of his purpose, and he spoke so low that, though I 
was less than three feet distant from him, it was with some 
difficulty that I could make out all he said. 

“ I cannot conceive why it is,” he was saying, “ that you 
should refuse to accept this ring. The stone is a beautiful 
one; I selected it with great care myself, and drew the design 
for the mounting of it. The mere acceptance of the ring will 
not imply that you are in any way engaged to me. You will 
only confer upon me a favour for which I shall always remain 
grateful. Let us agree that the gift signifies nothing; only 
accept it, I beg of you.” 

“ I really cannot accept it. I told you I could not, before 
you had it made,” answered Constance firmly. 


192 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


“ Why has this change come over you ? ” he asked. 

“ No change has come over me,” replied Constance warmly. 
“ All I ever was to you, that I am now.” 

“ I think you were more kindly disposed towards me when 
we were fellow-passengers in the Etruria, and I am sure you 
did not avoid me so carefully before the advent of that English 
country boy as you have done since.” 

“ My recollection does not agree with yours, Mr Price. If 
it is your pleasure to construe ordinary American courtesy into 
the sort of kindness to which you attach a special meaning, I 
am not responsible for that. I regret it, but cannot help it. 
As for the English country boy you speak of, I must really ask 
you either to not refer to my future husband, or to employ a 
less offensive description of him.” 

“ Impossible ! ” exclaimed Mr Price ; “ you are not mad ! ” 

“ O dear no,” replied Miss Marsh very coolly ; “ I believe 
not. Are you, sir ? ” 

“ I am heartily sorry for you,” said Mr Price, closing the 
hand upon which he had been exhibiting a very fine ring, and 
replacing that bauble in his pocket. “ I should have thought 
that one Truman would have been sufficient for your family, 
if not for all America. If you knew all I could tell you, your 
plan for your future life would differ very widely from that 
which you have adopted, even if I were still excluded from 
it.” 

“ If my sister’s husband were here, I have no doubt he 
would be able to effectually reply to your insult,” said Miss 
Marsh indignantly. 

“ I have insulted nobody,” protested Mr Price. “ What I 
have said is true, and so is what I am going to say. The 
English country boy who has been your companion to-day is 
unworthy of your hand. He is what I have called him— an 
English country boy, without fortune, experience, or, so far as 
I have observed, talent. He belongs to a family which has 
enjoyed exceptional social advantages for more than three 
hundred years, yet in all that time no one member of it has 


AT TARRYTOWN. 


193 


distinguished himself in any walk of life. Such social position 
as has been theirs is now on the wane. The Squire of Holden- 
hurst has scarcely yet reached middle age, and a long time 
must probably elapse before young Ernest succeeds to his 
estate — a poor property, worth, perhaps, some six or seven 
hundred a year at most, decreasing in value every year, and 
perhaps soon to be confiscated by the revolutionary legislation 
which now prevails in England.” 

“ I know nothing of all this, and am not much interested in 
it ; but my sister’s husband is a Truman, and the people here 
do not account him a dull man.” 

“ That is true, I admit. Still, if your sister were as free as 
you are now, I have that in my pocket which would prevent 
her marrying him.” 

“ Indeed 1 ” exclaimed Miss Marsh ; “ that is more interesting 
than credible.” 

“ Still, it is true,” persisted Mr Price. “ No family was ever 
more glaringly misnamed than that of Holdenhurst — it has 
never produced a true man ; and the one clever member of it, 
your brother-in-law, counteracts his ability by his falsity. His 
faithlessness to his wife, to whose father was due his first step 
towards the great success he has achieved, is deplorable. The 
letter I have in my pocket reveals a state of affairs which in 
this country would enable your sister to obtain a divorce from 
her husband. Will you read it ? ” 

“ I take no interest in it, I assure you. My sister is happy, 
and has no wish for a divorce ; but even were that not so, it 
would not be my affair.” 

“Accepting as final your rejection of my suit, my last 
request — made to you in the hope that you will pause and 
reflect before you change your own fair name for the tarnished 
name of Truman — is that you will read this letter. It reached 
me this morning from the Rev. Mr Fuller, Rector of Holden- 
hurst Major. It is very brief, and will not engage your attention 
for more than two or three minutes. Surely, Miss Marsh, you 
will do so much to oblige a bitterly disappointed man.” 


194 


HOL DENHURS 7 HALL, 


“Very well; I will read it since you so greatly wish it,” 
and extending her delicate little hand, my Constance took 
from Mr Price a letter which he pleadingly extended towards 
her. 

The first part of this colloquy greatly inflamed that con- 
sciousness of victory which had possessed me ever since 
Constance Marsh had declared herself mine. Mr Price's 
tirade against my family, and particularly his animadversions 
on myself, amused me. But it was plainly apparent that the 
perusal by Constance of a letter from the Rev. Mr Fuller, 
detailing the circumstances of my uncle Sam’s connection with 
Annie Wolsey, might be fraught with very serious consequences 
to several persons. I resolved to interrupt the reading, and 
returned to my Constance as speedily as I could, this time 
happily without delay ; but when I reached the other side of the 
screen, I found that Constance had risen from her seat, and 
that Mr Price was walking away from her, a malicious leer 
upon his face as he replaced a letter in his pocket-book. 

“Well, darling Connie,” I said, “ I have heard nearly all. 
You are a brave, faithful little woman. But why are you so 
pale ? Thank God, the worst that envious wretch can say or 
do is powerless to affect us.” 

“ Oh, Ernest, dear, if only I was sure of that ! Ten minutes 
ago I was happy ; now I am very wretched.” 

“ Why, what has happened ? ” I asked in alarm, and wffth 
dismal forebodings of the mischief my enemy had sown. 

But at that. moment the electric light was turned on, streams 
of people began to pour into the drawing-room from the terrace, 
and a German professor took his seat at the piano. 

I sought to lead my prize out of the throng to some obscure 
nook, where, secure from interruption, she could relate to me 
the contents of the letter which she had just read, and we could 
together discuss its import ; but failed to find an opportunity to 
do so. Aunt Gertrude, Mrs Van Rensselaer, and Mr Rosenberg 
now appearing, the latter began to rally me upon my monopoly 
of Miss Marsh. “ It is not fair, you know, Mr Truman,” said 


AT TARRYTOWN. 


195 

that Jewish gentleman. “There is, I am sure, at least one 
other gentleman present who is partial to the company of Miss 
Marsh, and there are of course many others besides. As in 
most assemblies, there are more ladies present here than gentle- 
men. Will you permit me to introduce you to some of them ? 
I shall be very pleased to do so.” 

“ Perhaps you had better go with him a little while,” whis- 
pered Constance ; “ I feel rather better now, Ernie dear, and 
will tell you all as we go home.” 

I turned, bowed to my future wife, and accompanied Mr 
Rosenberg to a distant part of the room. 

“ I am sorry that your uncle could not make it convenient 
to come here to-day,” said Mr Rosenberg, “and so is Mrs 
Van Rensselaer. He works too hard, and allows himself too 
little relaxation. Did you know the late Mr Van Rensselaer ? 
No? He was a man somewhat like your uncle ; and so was 
Mr Marsh. I have often thought that if each of those three 
could have lived for a hundred years, and they had worked 
together, they would have owned North America between them. 
Your uncle’s skill in bargaining is something marvellous — I 
would give a cool million to have his power for six months, 
and yet be dollars in pocket. Do you see that grey-bearded 
old man over in that corner by the side of the young lady in 
blue ? That is Angus Mackenzie, the petroleum king, one of 
the richest men in the United States. When he came from 
Aberdeen forty years ago he wasn’t worth ten dollars, and 
your uncle says his success has been due to a porridge-built 
constitution. Allow me to introduce you to Miss Mackenzie.” 

The young lady in blue rose, and was introduced to me in 
formal terms. 

“ And so ye’re the nephew of Samuel Truman ? ” crooned 
Mr Mackenzie, who seemed very old and decrepit. “Well, 
well ; it’s a pity such a clever man should be without a son o’ 
his verra own ; but dollars won’t get everything, and a nephew’s 
no’ a distant relation. If Sam is as fortunate in his nephew as 
ye’re in your uncle, he’s done well.” 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


196 

I did not care to enter into conversation with this old Scots- 
man, whose garrulous tendency was evident. Mr Rosenberg 
perceived the state of the case and hurried me away. Although 
not so deeply anxious as I had been before my Constance had 
given me her hand, I was much concerned in the unexpected 
event which had acquainted her with a matter I had hoped she 
might never hear of, and could not bring myself to take much 
interest in the various persons to whom Mr Rosenberg intro- 
duced me. Indeed, that gentleman noticed my abstraction and 
remarked upon it, but readily accepted my excuse (a very real 
and true one) that I found the new scenes among which I was 
cast, the presence of so many strangers, and the manners and 
customs of American society, in such violent contrast with my 
surroundings in an English village, that I was confused by the 
change ; but that I hoped to be quite at my ease after a little 
more experience of these things. Mr Rosenberg then proposed 
that we should take a seat near to the piano, as Miss Inez 
Juarrez, who had a fine voice, was about to sing. I gladly 
agreed. The natural gift and the skill of Miss Juarrez were 
evidently known to the company present, for no sooner was it 
whispered that she was about to sing than a wide semicircle 
of admiring listeners was quickly formed in front of the piano, 
and among the foremost I observed my Constance seated 
between her sister and Mrs Van Rensselaer. She still appeared 
unusually pale ; but when she perceived me her cheek slightly 
flushed, her eye brightened, and she bestowed on me a glance 
which caused my heart to flutter, and all care and anxiety to 
depart from me. 

Miss Inez Juarrez had a full, rich soprano voice, which she 
controlled with admirable art. Her song was simple enough 
from a musician's point of view — the work probably of some 
South American composer unknown to fame — but it was 
as highly impassioned as the words to which it was wedded — 
words in the Guarani dialect, the language of the Paraguayan 
people. 

Inasmuch as this song made a great impression upon me 


AT TARRYTOWN. 


197 


when first I heard it, I have, long afterwards, attempted to 
translate it. My translation which I here give is, I know, 
defective ; but it is the best I can make. If my policy were to 
conceal everything defective, perhaps no page of my memoirs 
would ever be given to the world. 

SONG. 

One golden morn the god of Love, 

Descending from his realm above. 

Paused by a maiden’s casement ; 

He heard within a gentle sigh, 

And thought a tale might hang thereby, 

For where Love is there Sleep must die — 

Love, earthly thoughts’ effacement. 

The maiden’s eyes were opened wide, 

She saw her brave, and none beside, 

Though he abroad was speeding ; 

Again she heard the vows he made, 

When last with him alone she stray’d, 

In Paraguayan forest glade, 

Each other only heeding. 

The Love-god with emotion shook, 

And from its case a dart he took, 

Which soon the skies was cleaving ; 

The sun-rays coursing in its train, 

Reveal the distant faithless swain, 

Who never will return again 

To her he wept at leaving. 

“Alas, dear heart ! ” the Love-god cried, 

“Though I could place thee at his side, 

I have no will to do it. 

When men are faithless women weep, 

Yet better thou thy state should keep, 

For as man sows so shall he reap — 

Who break their vows shall rue it. 

As the last plaintive note of the singer ceased to vibrate I 
narrowly observed aunt Gertrude, who had been an attentive 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


198 

listener to this strange song ; but I failed to detect in the 
expression oi her face any sign which could be interpreted as a 
silent recognition on her part of a parallel between the fable of 
the verses and her own circumstances. On the contrary, being 
asked by Mrs Van Rensselaer to sing, she readily complied, 
and charmed everybody present by her skilful rendering 
of an Italian romance. 

Not so her sister, my Constance. For her the Paraguayan 
song seemed to have some special and painful meaning ; she 
became paler than before and with difficulty concealed her 
agitation. 

These observations convinced me that uncle Sam had that 
morning deceived me when he so jauntily asserted that oid Mr 
Wolsey could tell his wife nothing which she did not already 
know. I was not, however, so much interested in that con- 
sideration as in the disquietude of Constance; and in hope 
that I might be able to comfort her, my aunt had no sooner 
taken up her position by the piano than I crossed over and 
occupied the seat she had just vacated. 

The attention of the company was wholly bestowed upon the 
singer; and the sound of another voice, though but in a 
whisper, would have been rightly regarded as an ill-mannered 
interruption. Though I could not for the moment speak to 
my fair one, I was able, even in that public situation, to press 
her little hand in mine with a significance which was not 
misunderstood. 

Aunt Gertrude was followed by several other singers ol 
various degrees of merit, but all alike in so far as they 
prevented conversation between Constance and me ; nor could 
I find any convenient opportunity to interrogate her until we 
were again on board the Iroquois. Fortunately I had not long 
to wait for this, for the river being a slow way to return to 
New York City, it was decided that we should leave Tarrytown 
early. We were no sooner on board than my aunt, whom I 
suspect partly understood the aspect of affairs, withdrew to the 
cabin to resume her book, leaving Constance and I to do as 


AT TARRYTOWft. 


199 


we would. The evening being delightfully fine and cool, and 
the sky an unfathomable blue studded with innumerable stars, 
to say nothing of other .reasons, of course we preferred to 
remain upon deck. 

Notwithstanding my impatience to know precisely how 
Constance was affected by the information she had gained 
from Mr Fuller’s letter to Mr Price, we were seated closely 
together for several ‘minutes before I ventured to ask her, and 
when I did so my question received no reply, but hot tears fell 
upon my hand. I was painfully surprised and unnerved by 
this incident, and knelt down beside the distressed girl, saying 
I know not what, but doing all in my power to comfort her. 
After a little while she became more composed and looked at 
me steadily. 

“ My sister must never know of this,” she said ; “ it would 
kill her.” 

“ Must never know of what ? ” I asked. 

“ Of the contents of that letter Mr Price showed me.” 

“ I have not read that letter, but I fear I know what you 
refer to,” I answered. 

“ Your words confirm the letter. 1 feared it was true as I 
read it. Poor dear Gertie ! and she is such a loving wife, and 
has such unbounded admiration of her husband. Can it be 
that all men are false ? ” 

“ No, darling, it cannot ; but I confess I greatly fear there 
are many such. Speaking for myself, I swear by the sky above 
and the water beneath, and by the great Being who created 
them both, that you are the only woman I have ever desired ; 
that if you will be mine and faithful to me, according to your 
promise and my belief, I am yours, and yours only, till I die. 
With your faith in mankind thus rudely shaken, and knowing 
that I must leave you to-morrow not to see you again for at 
least a month, can you trust me ? ” 

Constance looked up at me, and the tears in her eyes 
glistened in the starlight as she softly replied — 

“ I will trust you,” 


200 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


I caught the dear girl in my arms, and, pressing her face to 
mine, for the first time bestowed upon her lips 

What is this I am writing ? This'will never do. On reading 
this* page it really impresses me as more like a leaf from a novel 
than a passage from the memoirs of a middle-aged English 
squire. 


XXIV 


THE ACCUSATION. 

Assure yourself, each circumstance dissect, 

And think not proved that which you but suspect ; 

Few have the power to bless, but all can ban ; 

O woe to falsely say, “Thou art the man ! ” 

Holdenhurst village ! Was it possible that I had been absent 
from it but little more than three weeks? The calendar 
affirmed that such was the case. Why, in those few days I 
had travelled further, seen more of mankind, and committed 
myself for good or for evil more deeply than in all my life 
besides. Yes; this was my native place, unchanged in any 
respect, yet somewhat strange to me now that I regarded it in 
the light of an enlarged experience. There was the quiet, 
straggling street; the old Norman church on the hill sur- 
rounded by moss-grown, half-obliterated stone memorials of 
bygone generations ; the Truman Arms, our village inn, with 
the carrier’s horse drinking water from a trough outside while 
his master refreshed himself with ale within ; and the great iron 
gates of the Hall, surmounted by the heraldic device of the 
Truman family, a lion struggling in the coils of a python. 

It was past midday when I entered Holdenhurst on foot, 
and the street was more than usually deserted ; but the village 
folk, with exception only of the very young and the very old, 
could be discerned harvesting in the fields beyond, while over 
the whole scene brooded that oppressive heaviness which in 
England not uncommonly heralds an autumnal storm. 

As I had not communicated with my father since despatching 


202 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


the telegram from New York announcing my intended return, 
no conveyance was at Bury St Edmund’s to meet me — a cir- 
cumstance for which I was inclined to be thankful, for my 
journey from New York, long and tedious as it was, had not 
sufficed for me to digest all my recent experiences, and I was 
anything but prepared to meet my father and John Adams — 
particularly the latter. A long walk alone on a country road 
I had always found a favourable condition for solving any 
problem which perplexed me ; but to-day my specific failed to 
produce its usual effect ; I was unable to shape or in any way 
adequately realise the results which might follow the doing of 
that which I had returned to England to do ; and when I 
turned into the path which led up to the Hall, my mind was 
scarcely more clear than the sky above me — now more than 
ever dark, but emitting frequent flashes of lightning. 

On entering the house, I was told by a servant that my 
father and Mr Wolsey were together in the study, and I went 
there to them at once without ceremony. Both were un- 
feignedly pleased at my return, my grandfather regarding me 
with much curiosity, and expressing his pleasure at my increased 
height and apparent health. 

“To think that five years should make such a difference!” 
exclaimed my grandfather. “When I left Holdenhurst you 
were a mere boy ; now you are almost a man.” 

“Not quite?” I asked. 

“ Well, hardly,” said my grandfather. “ A fellow-passenger 
of mine, a clever old fellow who came from Sydney to England 
with me, used to say there was no man under thirty years of 
age.” 

“Your friend is wrong,” I replied. “A large part of the 
world’s best work has been done by men when they were less 
than thirty. For my part, I am convinced that my judgment 
in general matters is as sound as it will ever be, and I shouldn’t 
hesitate in making unassisted decisions in all matters relating 
to myself.” 

Mr Wolsey seemed a little disconcerted by my vigorous 


THE ACCUSATION. 


203 


reply, and looked inquiringly at my father ; but the latter, 
affecting not to notice it, turned the conversation by asking if 
I had a pleasant voyage to England. 

“ A very pleasant voyage indeed,” I replied ; “ no such 
storm as this either going or returning ” — for at that moment 
the rain was lashing against the windows with tremendous 
force, and thunder and lightning were almost constant. 

“ I was just completing an arrangement with your grand- 
father,” said my father, speaking slowly, as he turned over a 
number of leases and agreements which lay piled upon his desk 
in front of him. “ Mr Wolsey has agreed to settle down at 
Holdenhurst, though not as my tenant. As you know, I have 
no less than four farms at present vacant, and as soon as Mr 
Cooper goes I shall have another. To look for an agricultural 
tenant in these times is like seeking for the philosopher’s 
stone, so I have offered your grandfather his old house (it has 
remained empty ever since he left it) and a small salary ; and 
he has undertaken to superintend the cultivation of my tenant- 
less farms. What with bad seasons, and the low prices at 
which foreign agricultural produce is put upon our markets, 
the farmers are really in desperate straits, and it’s difficult to 
see what the end of it all will be. Nothing but a duty on the 
importation of corn, or a European war, can save them from 
ruin. Mr Fuller himself admits as much, though he doesn’t 
see his way clear to pray for either of those things. Of course 
you are glad that your grandfather is to be near us again.” 

“ Most assuredly I am, and ” — I added with a sudden out- 
burst of courage — “ I am very pleased that he has accomplished 
the purpose which occasioned his going away. How is my 
cousin Annie ? ” 

My grandfather seemed surprised at my question and 
remained silent, while my father glanced uncomfortably at us 
both. 

“ Is she quite well ? ” I inquired again. 

“ Poor Annie is better in health than reputation,” said my 
father after a pause, answering for Mr Wolsey. “ I am sorry 


204 


IIOLDENHURST HALL. 


to say it, but my brother is a heartless villain. I never thought 
he was so black as he is.” 

“ And I don’t think he is so black as some people regard 
him,” I answered, with unguarded warmth. “Is it not possible 
uncle Sam may be able to urge some consideration which will 
extenuate the fact that he took Annie away without her father’s 
consent? Besides, Annie is old enough to know the con- 
sequences of her acts, and you say that my uncle treats her so 
well that she will not leave him. It seems to me that my aunt 
Gertrude is the only one who is injured.” 

“ Did your uncle tell you to say that to us ? ” asked my two 
companions in a breath. 

“ No, indeed he did not ; nor did he suggest any such ideas 
to me. I speak only for myself.” 

“ Then I am sorry, Ernest, that you have no clearer ideas of 
right and wrong,” said my father. 

“ Oh, as to that, different people view a matter differently. 
Even if a man were convicted of a particular offence, I should 
not regard that fact as proof of his guilt of another and 
totally different offence ; but there are people whose ideas of 
right and wrong permit them to reason so.” 

I felt strongly for my uncle Sam, and could not hear the 
man who had been so extraordinarily kind to me abused 
without a feeling of indignation. As if to add force to my 
declaration, I had scarcely articulated the last word when a 
terrible flash of lightning brilliantly illuminated the almost 
darkened room, and was followed by a tremendous thunderclap 
which shook the whole house. 

The veiled reference to the inference my father had drawn 
from uncle Sam’s affair with Annie Wolsey did not escape 
attention. But my father was too firmly convinced that his 
brother had stolen the sequins to wince at any satire I was 
master of. Looking at me steadily, he said in a reproachful 
tone — 

“You have been away from home nearly a month, and 
are no sooner returned than we almost quarrel, a thing we 


THE ACCUSATION. 


205 


never did till my brother came here. Has not that man caused 
mischief enough — to me, to your grandfather, to your cousin, 
to his own wife, and I know not who else besides — but he 
must need destroy all sympathy between you and me ? ” 

“ Not your brother nor any man could do that,” I asserted 
stoutly. “ I am your son, and honour you as a good father to 
whom I owe everything ; but none the less do I profoundly 
believe that you are the victim of a disastrous mistake ; and 
I don’t despair of a day to come when you will be thankful 
that my opinion in the matter of the sequins differed so widely 
from yours. What if I were to establish beyond question that 
your brother never had anything to do with those sequins ? ” 

“ I should be immensely relieved and most devoutly thank- 
ful. But I have no such hope ; common sense forbids me to 
entertain it.” 

“ And my common sense will not permit me to reject it,” 
I replied. 

“ That being so, it is useless for us to talk any more of the 
matter until you have something tangible to show in support of 
your views,” said my father, turning away. 

“Quite so,” I agreed; “let us speak no more on this 
wretched subject until I have.” 

The gong in the hall was sounding for luncheon, but could 
only be heard imperfectly amid the din of the storm, which 
still raged furiously. My father led the way to the dining-room, 
where luncheon was laid for three. There, nervously fussing 
about the sideboard and appearing . older and more decrepit 
than ever, was the man who had occasioned my hasty return 
from America. John Adams regarded me with a puzzled look, 
and with that familiarity which is not unfrequently permitted 
in old servants congratulated me on my safe return from 
abroad. 

We were no sooner seated at table than Mr Wolsey, with 
the laudable desire, as I thought, of preventing the conversation 
from running upon disagreeable topics, inquired how I liked 
New York, to which I answered that I thought it was a very 


20 6 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


fine city generally, but that its harbour and chief river were 
magnificent. 

“New York did not impress me so favourably,” remarked 
Mr VVolsey ; “ it is evident that you have seen only the better 
part of that city. Vice in its most repulsive form is nowhere 
so openly flaunted as in the Bowery, while for squalor the 
East End of London can show nothing quite so horrible as 
Baxter Street. I was there for two months, and I never want 
to see the place again.” 

“I was in New York for only five days, and I hope to see 
that city again very soon. Indeed I am not sure but that I 
would like to live there entirely.” 

“ The absence of a middle class corresponding to what we 
in England understand by that term,” pursued Mr Wolsey, 
ignoring my remark, “ strikes me as very bad for the whole of 
society there. Perhaps you did not observe that it is only rich 
persons who can afford to keep a house entirely for their own 
use, and that the smaller traders, artisans, and labourers are 
herded together in tenement houses — huge, unsightly barracks 
of great height, each accommodating scores of families. What 
can be said for such a system in a climate where in summer 
the thermometer commonly stands above ninety in the shade, 
and for weeks together there is not so much breeze as would 
flutter a leaf?” 

“ I noticed none of those things.” 

“They are to be seen by whoever looks for them,” continued 
Mr Wolsey. “ And then again, the conditions of life are every 
bit as hard as in London or any other great city. Work in 
New York is fully as difficult to obtain and is no better paid 
for, prices considered, than in any city of the old world. No 
intelligent American who has travelled denies this.” 

“ I am afraid Ernest takes but little interest in public 
questions,” remarked my father. 

“ They will force themselves upon his attention as he grows 
older,” Mr Wolsey went on. “With but little modification my 
remarks apply with equal truth to Melbourne and Sydney, or 


THE ACCUSATION. 


20 7 


indeed any city of modern creation. In all of them the old- 
fashioned qualities of patient perseverance, abstinence, and 
thrift are as necessary to the amassing of a fortune as in 
England to-day, though they afford greater opportunities for 
the wily and unscrupulous to grow rich speedily in the manipu- 
lation of monopolies and public funds, and the practice of 
rascalities not possible in older communities.” 

“ Isn’t grandfather violating the agreement we made as we 
were coming to lunch ? ” I inquired of my father. 

“ The agreement was between you and me,” said my father, 
smiling. “ Mr Wolsey was not a party to it.” 

“ I beg your pardon, I am sure,” said Mr Wolsey. “ That 
you should discover in what I have said anything to remind you 
of the man your father and you have agreed not to speak of, is 
as full an acknowledgment of the truth of my remarks as I could 
receive.” 

As I could not deny that this was the case, I remained silent, 
and my father took advantage of the pause to ask Mr Wolsey 
some question relating to farming in Australia, which effec- 
tually deflected the conversation from that dangerous channel 
into which it had again drifted. 

Luncheon over, I withdrew, and was making my way to my 
room when I was stopped by a servant in the hall, who was 
bringing me a letter which had just been delivered by a 
mounted messenger. Hastily tearing open the envelope, I 
read : — 


Mrs Andrew Butterwell presents her compliments to 
Mr Ernest Truman, and requests the pleasure of his 
company on Friday, the — th of September, to join 
a shooting party. 

At Kingsthorpe Grange, io A.M., sharp. 

Chevington, 

Bury St Edmund’s, 

— th September, 18— R.S.V.P. 


208 


HOLDENHURST HALL, 


This communication was upon a card, lithographed in the 
usual manner, with the blanks for name and dates filled up in 
writing. I turned it over in my hand two or three times before 
I remembered the circumstances of the brandy-imbibing, 
troublesome old widow who was once my companion on a 
railway journey from London to Bury St Edmund’s. Of course 
I would not go ; there was nothing to consider on that point : 
but it at once flashed upon me that this circumstance would 
afford the opportunity I desired for sending old John Adams 
away out of the house for the greater part of the next day — for 
Chevington lay some five miles on the other side of Bury, and 
it would take a messenger at the least six or seven hours to go 
there and return. 

“Tell the messenger I am unable to give my answer now, 
but I will either come to Chevington to-morrow, as requested, 
or send a messenger to excuse me,” I said to the servant ; and 
putting the card in my pocket I continued my way to my room. 

Yes, I thought, this is a Heaven-sent opportunity, and will 
not only spare me sending to Bury to purchase something 
I don’t want, but will keep the old man away from the house 
long enough to enable me to thoroughly examine everything 
in his room. 

I opened my window and looked out upon the garden. The 
storm was subsiding, but rain still fell and there were occasional 
distant rumblings in the air. My spirit was as perturbed as 
Nature had been, but unlike Nature, was not tending towards 
peace. A vague presentiment, as of some pending calamity, 
deeply oppressed me. 

Pshaw, I mused; what humbugs men are! My grand- 
father’s words just now sounded most true and disingenuous ; 
his indictment of uncle Sam would have won the sympathy of 
any one who did not know that the old man was first to 
break faith in the matter of my mother’s marriage. And my 
own father too, did he not avail himself of my grandfather’s 
authority to effect what he failed to otherwise achieve, his fair 
fighting competitor being his brother ? Then there is my rival 


THE ACC US AT 10 A. 


209 


— nay, my enemy — Evan Price. All that fellow said about 
our family was true ; yet why did he say it ? Because a rich 
and beautiful girl he desires has preferred me before him ; 
therefore it is he hates me. Again, there is that ungrateful 
thief we have housed and fed for I don’t know how many 
years — robbed us of a fortune and sown perhaps an irremediable 
enmity between two brothers. Certainly, but for the love of 
my Constance I should be disgusted with the whole world. 
Life is an inexplicable thing. Every man must fight for him- 
self or suffer extinction. What a difference intercourse with 
mankind has made in the language and views of my grand- 
father ! Before he left Holdenhurst he could scarce speak upon 
any subject but the seasons and crops ; that is not so now. As 
for myself, I have largely increased my knowledge and courage, 
and if not yet quite happy, I must surely be so soon after I 
have accomplished the task I have come here to do. 

That task ! I could not get it out of my mind for one 
moment. Would that this day were over and to-morrow come ! 
What a triumph my vindication of my uncle’s honesty and the 
sudden possession of a large fortune would be ! There was 
nothing but to patiently endure for awhile this mental strain, 
this chaos of inconsequent thought. 

The day wasted slowly. I did not meet my father and 
grandfather again until dinner, which, thanks to the studied 
caution of all three present, passed without reference to any 
disputed subject. In the evening my grandfather filled the 
pipe with the large bowl which he had carried about with him 
from my earliest recollection, and in the intervals of his puffing 
related some of his experiences in Australia and New Zealand. 
Many of his anecdotes were interesting ; but none so interesting 
to me as the information, casually disclosed, that my father and 
he would be absent from the Hall nearly the whole of the next 
day surveying our vacant farms. 

That night I could not sleep, and the heavy hours dragged 
wearily. I was feverish and restless from suppressed excite- 
ment, and the first streak of dawn was the signal for me to 


210 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


abandon my bed. I threw my window open wide. The day 
had risen fresh and fair, and the birds were busy seeking their 
food. Nature was refreshed by the storm of yesterday, and 
the aspect before me told of peace and re-animation. 

I thought, perhaps a little sadly, of my old life at home 
before I had seen uncle Sam ; and of the great change which had 
come over my habits, thoughts, and hopes within the past few 
months, lamenting that extended knowledge should not always 
signify increased happiness, but too often the contrary. I 
endeavoured, but not very effectually, to comfort myself with 
the reflection that the matters which troubled my father and I 
were not of our creation, neither were they much within our 
control. The die was cast, and I must redeem my promise to 
my uncle ; there was no escape from it now, however distasteful 
the task. The honour of our whole family, and my own 
personal interest, largely depended on the issue. 

At breakfast my father and Mr Wolsey talked very freely, 
but still carefully avoided any reference to uncle Sam. The 
former was particularly considerate, and asked me to accompany 
him over the vacant farms in the old kind way in which he had 
always been used to speak to me, so that I was hard put to it 
to excuse myself. 

My father and Mr Wolsey were no sooner departed than I 
sought John Adams, and found the old man in the stable 
polishing a harness. 

“John,” I said, “put the bay mare in the dog-cart while I 
go in the house to write a note. I want you to go to Chev- 
ington at once.” 

“To Chevington, Master Ernest?” the old man echoed in 
a tone of surprise. 

“Yes, to Chevington, I repeated. “Look sharp; there’s 
no time to lose. I shall be back again in two or three minutes.” 

When I returned with my hastily scribbled apology Adams 
was backing the mare into the shafts, and very soon afterwards 
was ready to start on his journey. 

“Take this,” I said, giving the old man the letter, “and 


THE ACCUSATION. 


2 1 1 


deliver it to Mrs Butterwell, at Kingsthorf e Grange, Chevington. 
Don’t drive the mare too fast ; give her a good bait and at 
least an hour’s rest at Chevington.” 

“Will there be any answer to the letter?” inquired the old 
man. 

“ I don’t know ; possibly there may be.” 

I went to the gate and watched the old man drive away 
until he was lost to my sight in the bend of the road, and then, 
returning into the house, went direct to Adams’ bedroom. 

So far as I remembered, I had never been in that room in 
my life, though I perfectly well knew which room it was. To 
my great annoyance, I found that the door was securely locked. 
After considering this circumstance for some moments, I 
decided not to ring for a servant but to go myself to the kitchen. 

In the kitchen my unexpected presence created surprise, and 
the housekeeper came forward to meet me. 

“ There is something in Adams’ bedroom I want ; he has 
just gone out, and the door appears to be locked. Do you 
know where I can find the key ? ” I asked. 

“ He always carries it about with him.” 

“ What ! ” I exclaimed ; “ does he clean his own room and 
keep it locked ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” answered the housekeeper. 

“ How long has this been ? ” I inquired. 

“Years and years; I can’t tell you how long,” said the 
woman, smiling. 

I waited no longer, but went at once to a granary 
at the back of the stable where a tall ladder was kept. 
Though the door of Adams’ bedroom was locked, the window, 
I had noticed, was open. By that means would I get into 
the room, if possible; if not, then would I break into it by 
force. 

With no attempt at concealment, I brought the ladder and 
placed it under Adams’ window. It was an ancient window 
or casement, consisting of small panes of glass set in lead ; 
and it opened like a door, with a rack and pinion to prevent 


212 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


it flapping in the wind. Through this window I entered the 
room almost as easily as it could have been entered by the 
door. 

The room was very long and narrow, and the ceiling sloped 
so much to one side as to almost meet the floor. At one 
end stood the old man’s bedstead; and all the rest of the 
available space, except only a narrow way which led from the 
door to the bed, was literally crammed with boxes and 
packages of every shape and size. I remembered now that 
when the Hall was being renovated this room, by the special 
request of Adams, had been suffered to go untouched. I had 
not expected to come to such a large storehouse of miscellaneous 
property, and was at a loss what to examine first. After a casual 
glance round, my eyes lighted upon a strange-looking chest, 
painted a dull red, with some nearly obliterated Oriental 
characters in gold upon the lid, and that chest I determined to 
open. 

That this chest had belonged to my ancestor Roger, I had 
not the smallest doubt ; and my belief was confirmed when, 
after cutting the cords with which it was bound, I removed the 
lid and took out from it a Turkish robe, elegantly embroidered 
with gold, the colour as fresh as on the day it was made. As 
I held this garment up to examine it, there fell from out of its 
folds a fez, ornamented with a gold crescent and three diamond 
stars, and an aigrette composed of various magnificent stones 
and birds of paradise feathers, the latter for the most part 
broken and crushed. 

I was now in such a frenzy of excitement as to be almost 
incapacitated for continuing my search. Was all the property 
in this thiefs den stolen from us? and if so, was it all as 
valuable as this ? In my eagerness I turned the chest upside 
down that I might the quicker acquaint myself with its 
contents, which I found to consist of two other robes similar 
to the first but of different pattern, several more diamond stars, 
and five daggers of various sizes, all of them with richly 
jewelled handles. 


THE ACCUSATION. 


213 


Having replaced the things in the chest as carefully as my 
agitated state would allow me, I sat down on the edge of the 
bed and wiped the perspiration from my forehead. What 
should I examine next ? I had already abundant power to 
compel Adams to restore the sequins and whatever else he had 
stolen from us under threat of an immediate prosecution. 
Why, my object was already half accomplished. My father 
would now have to abandon his scepticism ; the wrong uncle 
Sam had done the Wolseys would be balanced by the wrong 
my father and Mr Wolsey had done uncle Sam ; we should all 
be rich together ; enmity would cease among us and everything 
henceforth go as merrily as the marriage bell which my Connie 
and I would cause to ring. 

No, I would not look any further now. When my father 
returned this room should be emptied, and everything in it 
thoroughly examined. Meanwhile I would take with me the 
aigrette, stars, and daggers; would close the window, and 
nail the door up on the outside. 

Having carefully executed these arrangements, I replaced 
the ladder where I had found it, and went again into the 
kitchen, where I left instructions that old John was to be 
sent to me in the parlour the moment he returned, and that 
nothing was to be said to him about my having been into his 
bedroom. 

And then, with feelings similar to those which I suppose 
must animate a victorious general after a battle, I paced round 
and round our garden hour after hour, and consumed many 
cigarettes, waiting for the return of Adams, which I hoped 
might be before my father and Mr Wolsey came home. 

After what appeared an interminable time a maid came out 
to inform me that Adams had returned, and was awaiting me 
in the parlour, and thither I at once went. 

The old man was standing just inside the door, holding his 
hat in one hand and a letter in the other. I took the letter 
from him and opened it, but finding that it was long put it 
into my pocket for the present without reading it. 


214 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


“ John, how long have you been a servant here?” I asked. 

The old man looked up wonderingly, and after a brief pause 
replied — ■ 

“Nigh on forty-six year. Your grandfather was just 
married when I come, and your father wasn’t born till eighteen 
months after.” 

“ And though you have been well treated and cared for all 
those years, you must needs rob your benefactors of everything 
valuable you can lay your hands on. Look at these things 
which I have just recovered from your room,” I exclaimed, 
throwing the aigrette, the stars, and the daggers on the table. 
“ And tell me, you lying thief, what you have done with those 
gold coins you stole out of the crypt, or by the God that made 
me, I’ll bind you hand and foot and cart you off to Ixworth 
and with these words I sprang at the old man, and seizing him 
by the throat, forced him against the wall, where I held him 
as in a vice, surprised at my own strength. 


XXV. 


DEATH. 

Dark mystery, unsolved, unsol vable ! 

Thy visitation awes the good and brave, 

And forces e’en the sceptic to confess 
The Hidden Power. 

The old man offered no resistance to my violence, nor did he 
utter a word. A ghastly paleness overspread his face, his 
head fell a little to one side, and he looked as if he would have 
fallen but for the support I afforded him. His apparent 
collapse under the sudden attack which had been made upon 
him excited my sympathy, and in less than a minute I relaxed 
my grasp, saying — 

“ Tell me where you have put those coins, and not only shall 
you escape punishment, but you shall be rewarded and allowed 
to remain here as long as you live.” 

The old man made no reply, but leaned against the wall, 
breathing heavily, with a strange expression on his face, the 
like of which I had not seen. 

Again I approached him, and laying my hand gently on his 
shoulder spoke to him kindly, yet earnestly — 

“ I am sorry I have frightened you. As I live, I promise 
you shall come to no harm. But please tell me what you 
have done with those coins, for I have a right to know.” 

With a great effort, pitiable for its feebleness, the old man 
took a large iron key from his pocket, and essayed to step 
towards me, making as though he would speak ; but he failed 
of his intention and fell heavily on the floor. 


21 6 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


The incident seriously alarmed me. In an instant I was on 
my knees at his side, supporting his head on my arm. But 
my utmost efforts failed to rouse the old man ; his attenuated 
form waxed heavier and heavier, and his half-closed eyes and 
compressed lips lent an expression to his face awful to behold. 
Quite terrified at his condition, I stamped violently upon the 
floor and shouted so loudly for help that two servants rushed 
into the room. 

“ Fetch Dr Thurlow at once ; if he isn’t in, send the boy on 
a horse to Ixworth for a doctor. Adams is ill — I don’t know 
how seriously. And bring some water, one of you, quickly ! ” 

The women hastily left to obey my orders, and were met 
at the door by my father and Mr Wolsey. 

“ What is the matter ? ” asked my father, stooping to look at 
the old man as he lay on the floor. “ What has happened ? ” 

“ I was talking to Adams when he suddenly reeled and fell 
down unconscious,” I explained. 

“ He would be better on the couch,” said Mr Wolsey ; and 
adopting the suggestion, we lifted the old man into that 
position. 

By this time a servant had returned with some water ; and 
while I bathed the face of the patient, Mr Wolsey and my 
father felt his left side and watched intently for signs of 
respiration, which could with difficulty be discerned. 

“ I am afraid he is going,” said my father quietly. 

Mr Wolsey, to whom these ominous words were addressed, 
signified his assent by slightly inclining his head. 

“ O no ! ” I cried in an agony of fear, oppressed with the 
consciousness of how largely I was responsible for this 
catastrophe ; “ five minutes ago he was well. He must surely 
revive soon.” 

My exclamation was interrupted by the entry of Dr Thurlow, 
who at once began a systematic examination of the patient! 
He felt the old man’s pulse and the region of his heart, closed 
and unclosed his passive hands, lifted one of his eyelids and 
placed his finger on the eye— an experiment which I could not 


DEATH , ; 


217 


help but witness, though it horrified me profoundly. These 
things accomplished, Dr Thurlow turned to my father and 
said — 

“ I am sorry to tell you, Mr Truman, that your old servant is 
dead.” 

My heart sank within me as I realised the meaning of the 
doctor’s words. This was my first experience of death ; and 
in presence of that awful mystery I seemed to grow older by as 
many years as minutes had elapsed since the fatal accusation. 
I could not speak, but stood, in a sort of stupor, looking down 
upon what had so recently been instinct with warmth and 
motion. All thought of the sequins was banished from my 
mind, and instead I could think only of the one who had 
taught me to ride in the green lanes about Holdenhurst when 
I was a child ; who had been first to impress upon me the 
names of the trees, shrubs, flowers, and birds common in our 
neighbourhood ; and who, so far as I could remember, had 
never spoken harshly to me. And now that one lay before 
me dead, he who but for me would doubtless still be perform- 
ing his customary duties about the place. My reflections were 
too painful to bear undisturbed, and I broke down utterly. 

Dr Thurlow was about to lead me from the room when he 
saw the Turkish daggers which lay on the table. 

“What are these?” he asked, picking up the weapons. 
“ Has the man died from an injury which has escaped my 
notice ? ” and he turned again towards the couch. 

“No, no,” I explained ; “ they have not been unsheathed 
for years. Look ; you will find it so.” 

“ Yes,” assented Dr Thurlow, who nevertheless thought it 
proper to satisfy himself of the truth of my statement by 
making a careful examination of the daggers. 

“Of what has the old man died?” These were the first 
words my father uttered after he had been told that his old 
servant was dead, and his voice was tremulous with suppressed 
emotion. 

“ I can’t say until I have investigated the case more 


218 


HOLDENHURST HALL, 


particularly,” replied Dr Thurlow ; “ but appearances seem to 
indicate syncope. His heart has been weak for a long time, 
and it is not an unnatural termination for him ; but at the same 
time I should not have expected it unless precipitated by some 
sudden excitement or passion.” 

While Dr Thurlow was speaking, Mr Wolsey opened the 
door, and revealed our servants standing in a group just with- 
out. He informed them of the melancholy event which had 
occurred within, and they returned sorrowfully to the kitchen, 
whispering together as they went ; while Mr Wolsey, my father 
and I, and Dr Thurlow, crossed the hall to the dining-room, 
the latter carrying the Turkish daggers and aigrette which he 
had taken from the table, and a large rusted iron key which he 
had found on the floor close to where Adams had fallen. 


XXVI. 


HOMELESS. 

Filial ties are strong and fast, 

And last when infant days are past — 

Unless, opposing nature’s course, 

They fail before that greater force 
Which draws together youthful hearts, 

And love and joy and hope imparts. 

“ No, Ernest, I am not hard upon you ; my fault lies on the 
other side. I have been weak, and am justly punished for my 
weakness ; but I am not too old to reform. Henceforward 
I will rule in my own house ; and anyone, not excepting even 
yourself, who is indisposed to submit to that rule, may betake 
himself elsewhere. Consider well my words; they are not 
lightly spoken.” 

“I protest that my conduct towards you has never been 
anything but that of an affectionate son. Why has all this 
trouble fallen upon me? Because I have sought to make 
peace between you and your brother. Was that a bad task 
to set myself? I have always believed, and do now believe 
more strongly than ever, that your brother had no hand in the 
robbery of the sequins.” 

My father smiled faintly, and remarked in a somewhat 
sarcastic tone that he doubted whether I should have assumed 
the Christian part of peacemaker so earnestly in this case if 
it had not also been the way to a closer acquaintance 
with Miss Marsh. His words aroused the slumbering anger 
within me, and I replied to them with more warmth than 
discretion — 


220 


HOLDENHURST HALE 


“What you say is very true. When inclination and duty 
point the same way, the duty is well performed.” 

“That has hardly been so in this case,” said my father. 

“ My purpose was defeated by a natural though unexpected 
event ; and I am no more responsible for the death of the old 
man we followed to the grave yesterday than I am responsible 
for the death of Charles the First. Dr Thurlow has told you 
that Adams’ heart was weak, and that it was a miracle he lived 
so long as he did. It was my ill fate to be the one to accuse 
him of his crime. Uncle Sam’s advice was sound.” 

“ Very sound ! ” echoed my father bitterly. “ And nearly 
all the property found in the old man’s room, including the red 
Turkish chest, was placed there with my consent when all the 
rest of the house was being overhauled by your uncle’s 
workmen ! ” 

“ How about the key which Adams was about to give me 
the moment before his final seizure ? ” 

“ Ay, how about it ? Have you not spent two days ineffect- 
ually trying to fit it to every lock within these walls ? Ernest, 
you have entirely exhausted my patience. I must absolutely 
decline to discuss with you again the robbery of the sequins ; 
and I repeat, for the last time, my determination. You may 
remain here as long as you will, and all I have is yours, 
provided that you cease to correspond with my brother, his 
wife, and Miss Marsh. Unless you are prepared to adopt that 
course, you must no longer consider this your home. I dare- 
say it pains you to be told this so bluntly ; but you must 
reflect that a man does not talk in this way to his only son 
without pain to himself, and surely never without great cause. 
7, at least, do not.” 

And with pale face, compressed lips, and a strange light in 
his eyes, my father passed out of the room. 

For a few moments I stood still, dazed by the importance of 
the decision I had so unexpectedly been called upon to make. 

I never for a moment doubted that I was very ill-used ; on the 
contrary, I considered myself most unjustly punished. Ever 


HOMELESS. 


221 


since my uncle was at Holdenhurst my policy had been 
directed with a view to effect his reconciliation to my father 
and the winning of Constance Marsh for myself; and such 
desires, I conceived, were commendable and natural in any 
one circumstanced as I was. The terms, imposed by my 
father as the price of his continued friendship and protection 
were too exacting for me to entertain. Deeply as it grieved 
me to finally quit that sequestered spot where I was born, 
whose every nook recalled some pleasant incident of my 
childhood’s happy days when my father had watched over me 
with a tender and anxious solicitude such as a man only 
bestows on a motherless child, I was prepared to abandon it 
at once and for ever rather than renounce the dear girl whose 
love I had won. It was hard to leave my home and live 
estranged from my lifelong companion and friend, the one 
to whom I owed everything ; but even that, hard as it was, 
would be easier than the alternative offered to me. These 
considerations brought tears to my eyes, but my purpose was 
never for a moment weakened. Suddenly I roused myself 
from the reverie into which I had fallen, and turning to go to 
my own room encountered Mr Wolsey at the door. 

“What is all this trouble between you and your father, 
Ernest ? ” asked the old gentleman. 

“You had better inquire for the particulars where you 
learned the fact,” I answered testily; for I could not help 
thinking that Mr Wolsey was in some measure responsible 
for the present resolute attitude of my father; that he had 
been exerting his influence to annul the friendship which he 
knew existed between my uncle and me. Without waiting to 
hear any further remark from him, I passed my interrogator 
abruptly and continued my way to my room. 

No sooner was I in assured solitude than I sat down, and 
resting my aching head on my hands, endeavoured to im 
partially review the whole course of my life, which consisted, 

I found, of two periods — nearly twenty years of happy, careless 
indifference, and six months of high hopes, grave anxieties, 


222 


HOLDEHhVRST HALL . 


and bitter disappointments, the division being marked by my 
introduction to uncle Sam. The shorter of the two periods 
seemed the longer, the flight of time being appreciated for the 
importance rather than the number of its events. For two 
hours did I wrestle with myself and suffer indescribable 
anguish of spirit, vainly desiring the light and guidance which 
I knew not where nor how to seek. The purest, most loving, 
most disinterested, most generous being I had ever known was 
Constance Marsh, and to her would I go to claim the promise 
she had made to become my wife. Would that I had accepted 
her advice, and abandoned all hope or thought of the cursed 
sequins ! But the mischief was past and irreparable, and I 
could only resolve that never again — no, not even though the 
clearest conceivable indications of success were placed before 
me — would I so much as lift my hand for the recovery of a 
treasure the very name of which must ever after be associated 
in my mind with misery. 

My resolution was taken : I would certainly leave home. 
Indeed, there was nothing else for me to do, my father’s terms 
being precise, and such as I could not bring myself to accept ; 
yet did I love my father as well as I had ever done, and the 
thought that I was now going away from Holdenhurst, perhaps 
never to return — that possibly I had looked upon my father’s 
face for the last time — cut me to the heart. I sat down at a 
table and wrote upon a sheet of paper, which I could only 
dimly see, a few lines addressed to my father, regretting that 
my conduct during the past few months had been such as he 
could not approve, especially as that conduct had been based 
upon a sincere belief in its righteousness, a belief which I 
still entertained ; and therefore, by his own ruling, Holdenhurst 
was no longer my home. I closed with many endearing 
expressions, not forgetting to state that should he ever desire 
to see me, it would be my pleasure no less than my duty to 
come to him. 

My painful task completed, I folded the note, and rose to 
pack a handbag. As I did so the looking-glass revealed my 


HOMELESS. 


223 


face and startled me, so pallid and haggard had I become. I 
observed my appearance for but a moment, and then hurried 
forward my scanty preparations for departure. Yet a few 
minutes later, and I had left the house with no more than I 
could conveniently carry, coming away unobserved through a 
door which led from the garden into an orchard, and thence 
along a footpath which served us as a convenient short cut 
into the Bury road. 

It was early morning, and the autumnal mist which obscured 
the fields was slowly disappearing before the rising sun. When 
I reached the bend of the road I turned to take a last look at 
my old home, but it was enveloped in the mist and could not 
be seen. Resuming my journey at a great pace, I endeavoured 
by rapid walking and clear thinking to emerge from the 
mental depression which had resulted, as I did not even then 
doubt, from my errors of judgment no less than my peculiar 
circumstances. Clear thinking ! Alas ! that was a power 
which had never been mine ; and it seemed there was no way 
for me to attain it but through the cruel discipline afforded by 
a succession of blunders and consequent disaster. 

As I progressed along the lonely road, I mercilessly dissected 
and criticised my past conduct, resolving with all the strength 
of will I could exert to be henceforth more sceptical in all 
things, more deliberate in action, and more secretive. The 
voluntary and generous declaration of Constance* Marsh 
absolved me, I thought, from my former cherished resolve 
not to marry unless my resources were at least as great as 
those of my wife ; and I would therefore at once return to 
America, claim the hand and heart I had won, and while 
endeavouring in all things to gratify my youthful wife, devote 
a large part of my time and means to some work for the 
general good. Reconciliation with my father could not fail 
to come about after the lapse of a little time ; and as friendship 
is no less contagious than enmity, might it not reasonably be 
hoped that the peacemaking would be yet further extended ? 

In this mood I arrived at Bury St Edmund’s, and having 


224 


HOLDENHURST HALE 


walked up Abbeygate Street, turned aside into the Butter 
Market, and entered an inn there, where not many minutes 
afterwards I was sitting in a private room at a table spread 
with writing materials. 

The letter which poor old Adams had brought from 
Chevington on the day of his death had not yet been acknow- 
ledged. It was an inquiry by Mrs Butterwell for the address 
of the Rev. Mr Evan Price. “That gentleman,” wrote Mrs 
Butterwell, “I once or twice had the pleasuie to hear preach 
in the little church at Holdenhurst Minor, and his manners 
impressed me as everything that was right and proper in a 
clergyman — such charming elucidations of Scriptural difficulties! 
such admirable discrimination in his bearing towards pro- 
prietors, tenants, and peasantry ! I have long intended to 
benefit this very deserving young man as soon as the 
opportunity to do so should arise, and the living of Kings- 
thorpe being vacant just now in consequence of the death of 
the Rev. Mr Obadiah Hornblower (poor dear man, he was 
only seventy-two, and till this year was never troubled with 
bronchitis in summer !) I have decided to offer it to Mr Price. 
The living of Kingsthorpe is worth nominally jQ 1200 a year, 
but owing to the badness of the times the income is now not 
much over ^~ 8 oo. It is a great depreciation, of course ; but 
in these days the living is still regarded as a good one, and 
I have feceived hundreds of letters from unbeneficed clergy- 
men begging for the preferment, some of them written as soon 
as it became known that Mr Hornblower was not likely 
to recover. Do pray oblige me with Mr Price’s present 
address, for I shall not offer the living to any one else until 
he has rejected it.” 

As I pondered over Mrs Butterwell’s letter, the bitter things 
— bitter chiefly because they were true — which Mr Price had 
said of the Truman family when conversing with Constance 
Marsh at Tarrytown, were vividly reproduced by my memory ; 
and I thought, too, how persistently he had continued his 
suit after he had plainly perceived that I was preferred to him. 


Homeless. 


225 

Though I could not entertain these recollections without 
some bitterness, and in a foolish moment was half tempted 
to withhold all knowledge of the coveted preferment from my 
rival, my better self prevailed. No ; I would not inaugurate 
my new course of conduct with a splenetic freak ; I should be 
forgiving and charitable, and would write a friendly though 
brief note to Mr Price, enclosing therewith Mrs Butterwell’s 
letter. This done, I wrote another note informing Mrs 
Butterwell of my action in the matter. 

And now I had to communicate with uncle Sam. What 
should I say to him? Of the failure, or worse than failure, 
of the course he had advised, he knew at present nothing. 
For a long while I paused, and stared vacantly upon a blank 
sheet of paper with my pen grasped ready to record my 
thoughts ; but, alas ! those thoughts were too painful and too 
chaotic for me to give them coherent expression, so after much 
waste of time I contented myself with inditing two telegrams. 
One was to my uncle, and merely stated that my mission had 
failed, and I was on my way to New York; the other, 
addressed to Miss Marsh, ran thus : “ My own ! No treasure 
but you. Returning to claim your promise. Your loving 
Ernest” 


XXVII. 


AT TtfE WINDSOR HOTEL, NEW YORK. 

Maiden . — Thy words are fair, but not more fair than false. Go 
thy ways ; I believe thee not. 

Knight . — And what though my words be false as thou sayest ? 

I am but like my kind . 

Maiden. — Alas, that is so. I too will be like my kind and forgive 
thee. 

On a certain Sunday evening in the month of October the 
good steamship Campania was made fast in her berth at the 
Cunard Company’s quay in New York City, and the delighted 
passengers, hastily abandoning the floating palace which had 
so quickly and luxuriously transported them from the old 
to the new world, hurried hither and thither, greeting the 
friends who awaited them, inquiring after luggage, or hailing 
hackney carriages. One passenger, however, quickly made his 
way through the eager throng; and as he had no other 
impedimenta than a small handbag, and was oblivious of the 
bawling of the expressmen, he was the first whom the Customs 
officials permitted to pass into the street. 

The weather was superb, the season being what some 
Americans call their “Indian summer,” and others the 
“fall,” though the latter term is generally understood to 
include a somewhat longer period than the former. The 
excessive heat of summer had passed away, but its brilliance 
remained, and there was a delightful coolness in the air. The 
foliage had put on a golden tint of extreme beauty, the sky was 
cloudless, and all external conditions of a sort to exhilarate 


A 7 THE WINDSOR HOTEL , , jVAW' FO^ 227 


humanity. But the gloom which had taken possession of me 
when I embarked at Liverpool had steadily increased during 
the voyage, and at times I had hardly been able to endure my 
own communings. After the exhaustive consideration of my 
position and prospects engendered by eight days of self-sought 
isolation in my cabin, the vista before me did not appear 
nearly so rosy as I had at first pictured it. Thoughts of the 
death of Adams now tormented me more than was the case 
immediately after that tragic event. Though I could not in 
justice reproach myself with having killed the old man, and 
was comforted by the positive evidence of Dr Thurlow to that 
effect, yet I well knew that at best my act had hastened the 
old man’s decease, and who could say by how much ? As I 
reflected how delicate was the distinction between my act and 
manslaughter, I suffered pangs of remorse. Consideration, 
too, of my other affairs was not calculated to afford me much 
relief. Here was a young Englishman with little or no experience 
of the world, homeless, heir to a small impoverished estate 
which he would probably not inherit for thirty years, owner of 
two hundred pounds and a handbag, come to New York to 
marry a young lady worth millions of dollars ! Why, the idea 
seemed too preposterous for anyone but a dreamer to entertain. 
But the die was cast, and the course entered upon must be 
persevered in to the end. Had it been possible for me to live 
my days over again, I should probably have made other and 
equally disastrous errors. 

Thou D h it was Sunday, and the great stores were closed, 
Broadway was thronged with well-dressed, prosperous-looking 
people, not much unlike such as one sees in the principal 
thoroughfares of European capitals, except that among them 
was a goodly number of Negroes and Chinamen. After a long 
sea voyage a walk is essential to most people for adjusting the 
physical equilibrium which has been so rudely disturbed. I 
found it so ; and grasping my bag, bent my steps up town as I 
had done on the occasion of my first coming to New York. 
Not long afterwards I paused before my uncle’s house, and 


228 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


was struck with consternation when I observed that the blinds 
were all drawn down and the shutters closed. 

Sounds of much unbolting and unbarring reached me before 
the door was opened in response to my summons, and then I 
was informed by a man-servant, whose face I remembered, that 
Mr Truman was staying at the Windsor Hotel, and had left 
word that he would like me to call upon him there. 

“ Are Mrs Truman and Miss Marsh with him ? ” I inquired, 
greatly surprised at this intelligence. 

“ I believe not,” replied the man, looking aside in a strange 
way that discouraged further questioning. However, I inquired 
of him the whereabouts of the Windsor Hotel, and being 
informed that it was close at hand on Fifth Avenue, I went 
there as quickly as I could, more perturbed than ever. When 
I presented my card to the clerk who had charge of the 
entrance hall of that colossal hotel, he at once deputed a 
waiter to conduct me to my uncle’s apartments, at the same 
time telling me that Mr Truman had remained indoors the 
whole of yesterday in expectation of my arrival. 

44 Ah ! ” exclaimed uncle Sam, as he laid his cigar on the 
mantelpiece and advanced to meet me, “you are the man I 
need ! I received your cablegram, and would have replied to 
it had it been possible ; but you were already on the water. I 
perceive you are well, so lose no time in telling me as briefly 
as you can about those infernal sequins, for I am in haste to 
tell you something of infinitely greater importance.” 

*My uncle’s manner alarmed me. He seemed to be labouring 
under suppressed excitement, and as he resumed his cigar and 
walked up and down the large room, his whole aspect impressed 
me as strangely different from the self-possessed, confident 
man who had excited my boyish wonder. Could it be that 
the enormous resources of this able financier had at last been 
broken by a combination for that purpose such as one not 
unfrequently hears of in the country of his adoption ? I could 
not conceal my fear, and gave timid expression to it. 

“No, no,” said uncle Sam impatiently, as a forced smile 


AT THE WINDSOR HOTEL, NEW YORK. 229 


overspread his features ; “ nothing of the kind. Get on with 
your story.” 

To hear was to obey. At no time was uncle Sam a man to 
trifle with, and least of all at the present moment. When I 
had completed my account of my mission to England, he 
paused in front of me (for during my recital he had not once 
ceased to pace the room), and throwing away the end of his 
cigar, said : 

“It is as I supposed. Though you are probably now 
farther off than ever from recovery of the sequins, and the 
result of your expense and trouble is merely the addition of 
another inhabitant to the devil’s dominions, I have as little 
doubt as ever that the old man had the gold, and that he has 
bestowed it where it will rest until it is discovered by some 
other thief. And now please oblige me by never mentioning 
this matter to me again, for I do assure you I am most 
heartily sick of it.” 

My uncle took two cigars from his pocket. One of them he 
threw to me across the table ; and having lit the other, he 
again paced the room. A minute or two elapsed before he 
spoke. When at last he did so, it was with intense bitterness. 

“ Of all that you have done or failed to do, that which vexes 
me most is your forwarding Mrs Butterwell’s letter to Price. 
But I don’t blame you in any way ; it was impossible that you 
could know of the deep hatred I was so soon to bear to that 
unspeakable humbug. The fault is my own for having, in the 
exercise of my natural generosity, foolishly suffered myself to 
befriend one of his canting, hypocritical caste. When I picked 
that unconscionable beggar out of the Suffolk mud, he was not 
ten cents ahead of his debts, and the utmost racking of his 
wits produced him an income about one-fifth as much as I pay 
my cook.” 

Uncle Sam paused for a moment, puffed forth a cloud of 
smoke in a way suggestive of ineffable contempt, and resumed : 

“As you know, I brought him here and gave him the 
management of a newspaper I own, paying him largely for his 


230 


HOLDENHURST HALE . 


inefficient discharge of duties which I had to teach him. He 
attached himself to Connie, and did his best to win her; but 
Connie, with prudence worthy of her father, would have none 
of him. When you appeared upon the scene, and gained 
almost without effort the prize for which he had contended in 
vain, he made the girl for whom he used to profess the most 
extravagant regard the victim of his revenge. His inability to 
injure her without injuring Mrs Truman and me in a greater 
degree did not deter the villain. His method was this. 
Knowing that Constance was devoted to her sister, and that 
anything which would trouble one must needs disquiet the 
other, he showed her (in your presence, I understand) a letter 
he had received from another pestilent Suffolk parson, exposing 
my relations with Annie Wolsey — the writer, a craven-hearted 
windbag named Fuller, having got his information from old 
Wolsey or your father. Connie, wiser than most women, kept 
her knowledge to herself ; and Price, suspecting this from the 
fact that there was no upset in my house, forwarded Fuller’s 
letter to my wife.” 

The malicious leer upon Mr Price’s face at the moment 
when I last looked upon him was pictured in my memory and 
not likely to be forgotten. That it was the outward and visible 
sign of a diabolical nature I had never doubted, and his 
strictures upon my family on that occasion helped to confirm 
the opinion ; but none the less was I astonished to learn in 
what circuitous ways this man had worked to injure people 
who, so far from giving him any cause for enmity, had done 
much to earn his gratitude. As my uncle again paused, I 
ventured to congratulate him on the futility of Mr Price’s act, 
seeing that Mr Fuller’s letter contained nothing which aunt 
Gertrude did not already know. 

“ My affairs are hardly so smooth as that,” continued uncle 
Sam, forgetful of, or diplomatically ignoring, a previous declara- 
tion he had made. “ My wife has left me, and I cannot 
induce her to return home except by substantial assurances 
that I have finally ceased to correspond with Annie Wolsey.” 


AT THE WINDSOR HOTEL , NEW YORK. 23 1 


“ Good Heavens ! ” I exclaimed in great affright. “ Do you 
know where she has gone ? Is Constance with her ? ” 

“ Don’t talk so loud. I am not deaf, and there is no 
necessity for informing everybody; the affair is sufficiently 
known already. You have no cause for alarm. I shall give 
my wife the assurances she demands, and in a day or two at 
farthest she will reassume her rightful position. At the same 
time I humbly confess that it does touch me to the quick that 
I should find it expedient to alter my way of life because of 
the machinations of that ungrateful vagabond. It is a pity you 
forwarded that old lady’s letter to him.” 

“ Where is my aunt and Connie ? ” I asked bluntly. 

“ In Orange, at a house where their father used to live.” 

“ Is that far from here ? ” 

“Only a few miles. Orange is in New Jersey, the other side 
of the North River.” 

A sigh of relief escaped me when I heard these words. To 
know that I was so near to my dear Constance was as one faint 
streak of light in a dark sky. I lit the cigar which I had been 
nervously twirling between my fingers during the progress of 
this conversation, and took a seat by the open window. Uncle 
Sam, too, became somewhat calmer, and seated himself 
opposite to me. A long pause ensued, which was at last 
broken by uncle Sam suddenly breaking out into a loud laugh, 
quite in his old style. I looked up at him in surprise. 

“ To think,” said he, as if in answer to the wonder depicted 
on my countenance, “that a large class of people should 
specially reverence such professors ! But I suppose if it were 
not for the lowness of the average intelligence, even the 
few couldn’t live well. ‘ Reverend,’ forsooth ! ” 

“ I fear I don’t quite understand you, uncle.” 

“ That fellow Price,” continued uncle Sam, not noticing my 
interruption, “ was specially trained to uphold and disseminate 
all virtuous principles as well by example as precept. In the 
way of precept, I should think he has performed his part ; but 
I never had the misfortune to hear him in circumstances where 


232 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


I was not privileged to reply. As for his example — well, he is 
hypocrisy, cowardice, meanness, and ingratitude personified. 
How is it that in these days of universal education and 
cheap journals such multitudes of people persist in investing 
his kind with attributes which belong to the creed, and but 
rarely to the teachers? Is there anyone living who doesn’t 
know that professors of religion have been guilty of every crime 
known to the law in the same proportion to their numbers as 
the professors of medicine, arms, or what else you will ? Does 
a moneylender exact less substantial guarantees from an eccles- 
iastical client than from a military client ? That these things are 
as they are don’t surprise me in the least. What I marvel at 
is the widespread delusion to the contrary. The delusion, I 
think, is not quite so prevalent here as in England, and it does 
not exist unchallenged even in the old country. I remember 
reading a few lines by a wisely anonymous poet which run 
something like this : — 

O Englishmen, when will you wake. 

And off your horrid thraldom shake. 

For Chadband and for Stiggins make 
A good strong cage ? 

With hypocrites your islands teem, 

And Cant and Humbug reign supreme, 

For men are rarely what they seem 
In this late age. 

But there, the rhymester might have spared his ink ! As well 
try to dispel a London fog with a squib.” 

Though my religious training had been so meagre that it 
hardly deserves to be recorded, consisting as it did of the 
devotional exercises enforced at school and a tolerably regular 
attendance at Holdenhurst Major church — where I used to 
combat somnolence by making anagrams out of the inscrip- 
tions on the memorial tablets adorning the opposite wall, while 
Mr Fuller delivered himself of his long, vapid, and inconsequent 
sermons— and no article of faith was ever insisted on, or even 


AT THE WINDSOR HOTEL , NEW YORK. 233 

discussed*, in my home; notwithstanding this training, I was 
shocked and pained by the levity with which my uncle rated a 
class of men I had, as a body, always greatly respected. But 
I was no match for him in argument ; and besides, if I had 
been, this was an inopportune moment in which to cross him, 
I chose rather to turn the conversation by asking my uncle if 
he had in any way notified Mr Price of his displeasure. 

“ What do you think ? ” asked uncle Sam in a contemptuous 
tone, as if he regarded the question as absurdly unnecessary. 
“ Had him promptly thrown out of the Investors' Guide office ; 
am pressing him by the quickest methods for repayment of 
money advanced ; moved Rosenberg to do ditto in respect of 
the value of a diamond the Jew was fool enough to let him 
have on credit ; and have the reverend gentleman under sur- 
veillance of two of Pinkerton’s smartest detectives, so that 
should he attempt to leave the State before he has given full 
satisfaction for the claims upon him, he will be instantly laid by 
the heels.” 

“ Where is Mr Price now ? ” I inquired. 

“ Staying at a boarding-house somewhere up town. Pinker- 
ton’s people will inform me to-morrow whether he is likely to 
square accounts or not. I am sure I sincerely hope he may 
be unable to do so ; for in that case I may perhaps succeed in 
fixing him here long enough to spoil him of that fat cure of 
souls your neighbour has offered him. By-the-by, how long is 
a parish of souls suffered to go uncured ? I mean, how long 
can the old lady keep the job open for Price ? ” 

I confessed my complete ignorance of the subject. 

“ What a fine item of news for some of your English Church 
papers could be conveyed in these words : ‘ The services at 
Kingsthorpe Church will be conducted during the next six 
months by the Rev. Mr Somebody, pending the arrival of the 
Rev. Mr Evan Price, the new incumbent, at present incarcerated 
in the Penitentiary at Blackwell’s Island, New York, as a 
fraudulent debtor.’ ” 

I did not join in the laugh with which uncle Sam greeted his 


234 


HOLDENHURST HALE , 


own thoughts, but rose as if about to leave, though -with no 
fixed intention. The unexpected aspect oi affairs in New 
York had greatly disconcerted me, and seriously deranged my 
plans. Uncle Sam perceived my disquietude and irresolution, 
and (somewhat unnecessarily, I thought) inquired the cause 
of it. 

“ I shall be very anxious until I have seen Constance,” was 
the only explanation I could offer. 

“Until you die, you mean,” corrected uncle Sam. “At 
present it seems to you that when you possess your dear 
Connie and her dollars there will be no desire in your nature 
left ungratified. My dear sir, don’t abuse your intelligence by 
believing any such nonsense ; and pray don’t contradict me, 
for I know more about you than you know about yourself. 
The only way to escape anxiety is to avoid knowledge, for that 
is the poison of which it is made. Take a Suffolk agricultural 
labourer, who has never been ten miles from the hovel in which 
he was born ; he is generally the father of ten children, and his 
weekly income is rarely more than ten shillings, and that he 
has to earn with his muscles. Is he anxious ? Devil a bit ! 
He whistles and sings, or rather he makes strange noises which 
he believes to be such, which is quite as good ; for, as we have 
just seen, faith is a very useful thing. Contentment is com- 
patible only with illiteracy and isolation. Now look on the 
other side of the picture. I have a wife not much older than 
your young lady, quite as beautiful as she, and the possessor of 
precisely as many dollars, while as for myself, there are not 
more than seven men in this great country whose means 
exceed mine. But I can’t escape anxiety. On the contrary, I 
have had rather large doses of it the last few days.” 

“ But you would have avoided your anxieties if ” 

“ If I had not done the things which have incurred 

them. Precisely. But there are matters of which no man 
ever estimates the consequence, and when those matters go 
smoothly he must always refer the gratifying result to his luck, 
and never to his judgment.” 


A 7 THE WINDSOR HOTEL , NEW YORK. 235 


“ I hope you have no objection to my calling upon my aunt 
and Miss Marsh to-morrow ? ” 

Not the least in the world, and you can take to your aunt 
a special message from me. I have actually accomplished that 
which she insisted upon ; and now, according to her own terms, 
she is willing to return to me. To-morrow, or next day at 
furthest, I shall be in a position to offer you the use of my 
house. Meantime, you can’t do better than remain here with 
me.” 

Supper was now announced, and my uncle accompanied me 
to the private room where it awaited us ; but he would not eat 
anything, preferring to smoke another cigar and chat to me 
while I partook of some much-needed refreshment. 


XXVIII. 


MISTRESS AND WIFE. 

As tender vines cling to a tower, 

And wreathe its old grey stones with beauty ; 

So women cling to manly power, 

And render to it love and duty. 

It was past ten o’clock when I awoke the next morning. The 
greater part of the night had been spent in a fruitless endeavour 
to compose myself to sleep ; and when, after many weary 
hours, I at last lost consciousness of external objects, I had not 
even then escaped the sense of oppression; so that when I 
arose in haste, surprised at the lateness of the hour, it was 
with none of those delightful sensations of refreshed vitality 
which commonly attend the awakening of healthful youth. 
But the thought that I was this day to see Constance Marsh 
acted as a stimulus to my feeble will, and I dressed myself 
with much care, though hastily. Needless to relate, my uncle 
was up before me and had already breakfasted. I found him 
standing by a window in the room where he had received me 
on the previous day, thoughtfully twirling a cheque around his 
fingers. An opened letter lay upon the table. 

After the usual brief salutations my uncle bade me go to 
breakfast without loss of time, a command I was not slow to 
obey, as he informed me that he was in receipt of an unsatis- 
factory communication the nature of which he would explain 
on my return. 

When I re-entered the room about fifteen minutes later, my 
uncle was standing in the place where I had left him, his 


MISTRESS AND WIFE. 


23 7 


hands clasped behind, and staring vacantly at the carriages as 
they swiftly passed up the avenue towards Central Park. I 
was much impressed by the evident change which had been 
wrought in this extraordinary man in but a few short weeks. 
Tw r o days ago, and I could not have conceived any circum- 
stances that would have induced Samuel Truman to remain 
quiet and pensive for so long as a quarter of an hour. 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed uncle Sam, suddenly turning upon me in 
his old energetic way ; “ read that letter, Ernest, and tell me 
what you think of it.” 

I examined the contents of the envelope to which my uncle 
pointed, and found they consisted of a cheque on Drexel’s 
Bank foi four thousand two hundred dollars, drawn by Evan 
Price in favour of my uncle, accompanied by a few polite 
words from that gentleman, stating that he forwarded the said 
cheque in satisfaction of all claims, and awaited a receipt for 
the same. 

“ Well,” I said, as I replaced the letter and cheque in their 
envelope, “I think you are to be congratulated. Mr Price 
can’t do you any further harm, and you have recovered your 
money.” 

“ That’s true,” admitted uncle Sam ; “ but I’m baulked of my 
revenge — for the present. No matter; all things come to 
those who wait if they be furnished with watchful eyes. Mean- 
while it is pleasant to contemplate the awful vacuity of that 
humbug’s purse now that he has disgorged those few dollars.” 

“Perhaps he has borrowed the money to pay you,” I 
suggested. 

“ I don’t think anybody would lend him so much now he 
has no connection with the Investors' Guide; but I may 
ascertain that later on. I have sent him a receipt, and the 
cheque I will give to you. It is an open cheque, and when I 
have endorsed it you can cash it at Drexel’s, in Wall Street, 
which is quite close to my office.” 

I was about to thank my uncle for his generous gift ; but he 
would not listen to me, and went on to say that he was in 


238 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


momentary expectation of the arrival of Mrs Truman ; that she 
had promised to come to him at the Windsor Hotel and to 
return with him to their house in Thirty-fourth Street. 
“ Connie,” he added, as he consulted his watch, “ is at Orange ; 
and if you start for that place within an hour and bring her on 
at once to New York you will find on your return your aunt 
and me in our proper places, and all things fixed comfortably.” 

This was delightful information, infinitely more pleasing to 
me than the possession of the cheque which I had just placed 
in my wallet. Unde Sam noticed my satisfaction and 
remarked upon it, bidding me never to needlessly complicate 
my affairs, for that way lies Perplexity, handmaid to Madness, 
but always to prefer simple courses, and then small things 
would never lose their power to please. Having expressed 
himself thus, he reclined upon a settee with his feet super- 
posed on the back of a chair, and lit his first cigar for that 
day. 

“ I suppose I shall experience no difficulty in finding Belle 
Vue Cottage when I arrive at Orange.” 

“ Not the least in the world,” said uncle Sam ; “ everybody 
in Orange knows it.” 

“ Then I will start at once.” 

“No, don’t go till your aunt comes; she can’t surely be 
many minutes,” said uncle Sam, consulting his watch for the 
twentieth time in an hour. “ Ah ! here she comes,” he 
exclaimed, as the door slowly opened and my aunt entered 
the room. 

Yes, it was my aunt who entered ; but not my uncle’s wife, 
the gentle lady Gertrude. No; it was my mother’s only 
surviving sister, the companion of my childhood, the woman 
who had caused the unhappy family division of which I had 
so recently learned. It was Annie Wolsey. 

“ Why have you come here ? ” asked uncle Sam in a husky 
voice, suddenly springing to his feet. 

Annie Wolsey closed the door as deliberately as she had 
opened it, and leaned her back against it — perhaps for the 


MISTRESS AND WIFE. 


239 


support it afforded, for she was ghastly pale, and seemed unable 
to close her colourless lips to give utterance to her thoughts. 

“Why have you come here?” asked uncle Sam again. 
“You have received my letter?” 

“Yes, I have received your letter,” said the agitated woman, 
after a painful pause, “ and I will not believe its statements in 
that form. With those lips with which you have so often 
expressed your love for me must you tell me that you have no 
wish to see me again, or I can never, never believe it.” 

“ Annie,” said uncle Sam sternly, yet with a slight tremor 
in his voice, “ what I have said to you in my letter is true, 
every word, and must be acted upon. It is entirely your own 
fault that it is so. Had you but followed my simple advice, 
this had never happened. How many times have I warned 
you of the probable outcome of your communications with 
your father ! The result is only such as I feared and foresaw. 
Now you have regained your father, and your father has put 
it out of my power to be to you what once I was ; but my 
protection is still yours, and in whatever part of the world you 
may choose to live you shall always be provided with large 
means, secured to you and your son.” 

“Ah, my son! but not more my son than yours. You 
mean our son. O Sam, surely this is not to be the end of our 
— our friendship ? My son is your only child ; it follows then 
that I am more really your wife than she whom the world 
recognises as such. Oh, don’t forsake me; defy the world’s 
opinion in this as you have defied it in so many other ways. 
Consider your great wealth and the independence it confers ; 
what censure you cannot afford to ignore, you can stifle with 
your gold. Don’t forsake me, Sam. I have been faithful to 
you ; I swear it, by whatever you most believe or hope for.” 

The speaker’s face was flushed now ; and having found her 
voice, she spoke rapidly, but in a plaintive, pleading tone that 
was painful to hear. In the tall, graceful woman standing 
before me I could with difficulty recognise the Suffolk village 
girl who but a few years before had been my almost constant 


240 


HOLDENHVRST HALL. 


companion, so changed was she. But her face and figure were 
none the less familiar to me, though for another and very 
different reason. When Annie Wolsey first entered the room 
I had started involuntarily, so great was her resemblance to 
the portrait of my mother which hung in the drawing-room 
at Holdenhurst Hall. I would at once have withdrawn, as 
having neither the right nor desire to be present at such a 
conference, but that Annie stood against the closed door, and 
my presence embarrassed the disputants so little that neither 
of them took the least notice of me. 

Annie Wolsey’s passionate appeal visibly disconcerted uncle 
Sam ; and when she opened and extended towards him a large 
locket that depended from a chain around her neck, displaying 
a portrait of an infant face with large laughing eyes and curly 
locks, he averted his face for a few moments to gather strength 
to reply. 

“ Annie,” said uncle Sam, advancing towards her and taking 
her hand in his, “it is not permitted to any one, man or woman, 
to entirely defy the proprieties upheld by the saintly few and 
the hypocritical many. You forget, or you fail to realise, that 
just such people as you and I will be in as great or even 
greater haste to condemn us as those who, whether from 
accident or design, have kept to the straight path. So long as 
our relations remained unknown, all was well. By your own 
indiscretion they have become known — and we must part, as 
I have always told you we should have to do in that case. 
I don’t think my regret is less intense than yours, and this is 
not the least part of it ; ” gently closing the locket, on which 
he had been gazing with a wistful expression — “but what I 
have written I have written, and come what may I will adhere 
to it. Do your best for” (here my uncle laid his finger on the 
locket) “ and I will do my best for you both. Good-bye, Annie.” 

Annie Wolsey took the hand which my uncle extended 
towards her, and having muttered a brief farewell in a voice 
too broken with emotion for me to make out the words of 
which it was composed, turned to leave. As she did so, my 


MISTRESS AND WIFE. 24 1 

aunt Gertrude entered the room ; and mistress and wife stood, 
scarce a yard apart, regarding each other in silence. 

Aunt Gertrude was the first to speak. Bowing slightly to 
her rival, she addressed her in icy tones, but with admirable 
restraint : “ I beg your pardon, Miss Wolsey, for so un- 

ceremoniously interrupting your conversation with my husband. 
Would you like me to retire until you have concluded your 
business with him ? ” 

The calmness of the American lashed the despairing English- 
woman into an uncontrollable outburst of fury. “ No ! ” she 
screamed ; “ I would not ! Stay with him till he casts you off 
as he has cast off me ! I am not the woman of his heart ; I 
never was, nor are you. That place was my sister’s, and I 
have naturally filled it better than ever you can.” Turning to 
my uncle, she continued : “ As for you, I cannot hate you. I 
would to God I could ; I have tried and failed. But I can die. 
My courage is greater even than your means, and if I may not 
have you I will have nothing of yours but your living image, 
our son,” and with these words the enraged woman drew from 
her bosom a small packet of papers and cast it contemptuously 
upon the table. Then, drawing herself up to her full height, 
and darting one last indignant glance at my uncle, with flushed 
face and flashing eyes Annie Wolsey passed out of the open 
door and was gone. 

Uncle Sam, who had been a silent spectator of this scene, 
made a motion as though he would follow her, which aunt 
Gertrude perceiving, threw her arms around his neck and 
prevented. My uncle endeavoured to put his wife gently 
aside, but could not. “ Follow her, Ernest, follow her ! ” he 
cried; “don’t leave her while she is in this mood. Quick, or 
she is lost ! ” 

I hastened down the long staircase and reached the sidewalk 
in front of the hotel just as Miss Wolsey was stepping into a 
landau which awaited her. 

“ Annie,” I exclaimed, “ Annie, dear ; wait one moment, X 
want to speak with you.” 


242 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


“ I have nothing more to say to anyone who bears your 
name,” said the companion of my childhood, regarding me 
with a stony, immovable expression as she fastened the door 
from the inside. “ Drive on ! ” 

And in obedience to her command the driver lashed his 
horses, and my girl-aunt was borne swiftly away. I watched 
the carriage on its course down town until it turned aside 
towards Union Square, and then slowly, and with a heavy 
heart, I re-entered the hotel and ascended the stairs. 

When I reached my uncle’s room I was met at the door by 
aunt Gertrude, looking very pale and agitated. “ Ernest,” she 
asked, “ will you please go below and fetch some brandy as 
quickly as you can ? I don’t want to ring for it.” 

I instantly disappeared, and in two or three minutes at most 
had returned with the required restorative. My aunt was 
waiting where I had left her, and seemed anxious, I thought, 
that I should not re-enter the room. “Thank you,” she said; 
“ your uncle is not very well ; but if you go over to Orange at 
once and fetch my sister, you will find us both at our house 
when you return with her. You had better not tell Connie 
anything of what you have seen and heard to-day.” 

I assured my aunt I would not do so ; and having wished 
her well out of her vexations, I departed for Orange. 


XXIX. 


CONCORD. 

While evil passions sway this human life, 

Sweet Peace stands veiled in presence of the strife ; 

Yet ready she to show her lovely face 
At kindly word or simple act of grace. 

Such scenic beauty as the United States of America can 
boast — and it is of wide extent and infinite variety — owes 
everything to nature, nothing to man. American cities, almost 
without exception, consist of unpretentious buildings disposed 
in square blocks, so that wherever the gaze of the- urban 
pedestrian is directed, his eye is met by monotonous right 
lines of avenues and streets. The feverish pursuit, the abasing 
worship, of the almighty dollar which animates the majority of 
the American people, killing the artistic instincts inherited 
from their European progenitors and leading them to contemn 
Beauty and deify Utility, while it has resulted in little or 
nothing to make American city life tolerable, has done much to 
spoil the natural features of America. Everywhere in the new 
world the traveller is confronted by advertisements of appalling 
dimensions and hideousness. Liberal-minded Americans who 
have travelled protest against such wanton outrages on good 
taste more loudly even than the stranger ; but they see no way 
to its suppression, except through some sweeping reform which 
shall rid the rabble-ruled American cities of their bribe-taking 
pashas, miscalled aldermen. Of few things has more been said 
and less done than the utter rottenness of American municipal- 
ism, and I am not prepared to waste words on the subject. 


244 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


Indeed, this passing* reference is merely introductory to the 
expression of my admiration for what I esteem an excellent 
idea, worthy of more extended adoption in America or any 
other country where the proportion of men to acres is not too 
great. I refer to Llewellyn Park, a beautiful tract of some 
seven hundred and fifty acres, extending from base to brow of 
Orange Mountain, by Orange City, in the State of New Jersey. 
Llewellyn Park, which is handsomely laid out and carefully 
kept for the common good, is studded here and there with 
elegant villas, not more than sufficiently numerous to impart a 
sense of present humanity to a charming natural spot, in the 
choicest portion of which exceptionally well-treated locality 
stood Belle Vue Cottage, formerly the residence of the late 
Erasmus Marsh, but now the property of his daughter, my 
aunt Gertrude. 

Notwithstanding my eager haste to see and speak with my dear 
Constance, I could not refrain from pausing a brief space to 
contemplate the delightful home where the infancy of my 
promised wife and her sister had been passed. The cottage, 
constructed ot wood, was of low elevation, but covered much 
ground ; it was designed with fantastic irregularity, window., 
and doors of strange pattern and diverse size appearing at the 
most unexpected angles. The cottage was sheltered at the 
back by a wide semicircle of large, closely planted trees, whose 
foliage had now assumed the beautiful golden tint of autumn, 
while along its front ran a commodious piazza, shaded with 
white canvas, from which one might step on to the sun-scorched 
lawn, or view the fine prospect between it and the foot of 
Orange Mountain. In this situation it is difficult to realise 
that the great city of New York lies so nearly as thirteen miles 
eastward ; but so it is. However, I did not give much con- 
sideration to that circumstance, but having admiringly regarded 
that part of the neighbourhood within my view, I entered the 
grounds of Belle Vue Cottage. The heaviness of spirit, born 
of my painful experience that morning, had quite passed away, 
and I was elated by the prospect of presently accompanying 


CONCORD. 


245 


one to gain whom I had suffered and dared so much. My 
presence being challenged at no point by either closed gate, 
servant, or dog, I approached the steps which led up to the 
piazza; and there, to my intense delight, I discovered my loved 
one reclining in a hammock of netted silken cords. As usual 
with her, she was dressed very plainly, entirely in white, which 
greatly enhanced her natural gracefulness of figure and feature 
as she lay, all unconscious of my admiring gaze, her delicate 
cheek resting upon one hand, while with the other she grasped 
the book that absorbed her attention. 

“ Connie ! ” 

The startled fair one dropped her book and looked at me 
with an expression of joyous surprise. 

“ So you have come at last, Ernie, dear ! ” she exclaimed, as 
I assisted her to descend from the hammock, for which service, 
before it was half rendered, I paid myself with a kiss. “ Why, 
what a long time you have been away ! I began to fear I 
should never see or hear from you again ! ” 

“ That could hardly be and I were alive, my own little pet ; 
but you will remember it was agreed between us that I was not 
to write or telegraph unless my mission to England succeeded. 
I am sorry to tell you it has failed utterly, and my fortunes, 
whatever they may prove to be, are to make. Never again will 
I reject the advice of my own Connie.” 

“ Not until the next time, you mean ; or until you weary of 
me,” amended Constance, pouting. 

“ Oh my darling, that can never be ! ” 

“ Make no rash assertions, my dear Ernie, and so perhaps 
escape broken vows. My sister, worthier far than I — but have 
you seen poor dear Gertie? How did you know where to 
find me?” 

“ I left aunt and uncle at Windsor Hotel not more than an 
hour ago. They are good friends now, I am happy to say, and 
I have this very morning had positive proof that the cause of 
their estrangement is now finally removed. At their request 
I have come to fetch you to New York, and before we can 


246 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


reach the city they will be once more in their own home, if 
indeed they are not already there, awaiting us.” 

“ Thank Heaven for that ! My most ardent wish is accom- 
plished. There,” continued my young lady, reading the 
faintest possible reproach in my eyes, “ don’t look at me like 
that. I welcome you with my whole heart, and will commit 
my life and all that is mine to your keeping, as I promised you 
I would ; but oh, Ernie, I can never think so well of men, or 
of women either, as once I did.” 

“ Dear Connie, that is only another way of saying that your 
experience is wider than it was — the reason why old people 
are so sceptical. But bad as the world is, there are always a 
faithful few ; and I do hope you will believe me one of them 
until you find that I am not.” 

Here my innocent, artless lover threw her arms around my 
neck. “I will believe you, my own dear Ernie,” she cried, 
“ though to do so were to hazard all. You bring good news, 
greatly more welcome to me than the discovery of any number 
of treasure chests.” 

“ I am as rejoiced to bring the good news as you are to 
receive it; but at the same time I confess I am much dis- 
appointed in the other matter. There are now only two things 
which prevent my perfect happiness — but in the heaven of your 
companionship I shall forget them both. I would have 
liked my fortune to have been something greater than I can 
carry in my pocket, and I regret my estrangement from my 
father.” 

“ The first is not worth thinking of. There are not many 
New York girls with more dollars than my father left to me. 
We shall not want for anything. The second can be removed. 
I have never seen your father ; but if I were to go to him after 
we are married and ask him if he would like to see my husband, 
all his love for his son would return — that is to say, if it has 
ever left him, which I much doubt.” 

“ Connie, you are a jewel. Was ever man so happy as I ? ” 

“Many a one, and gone out of his way to terminate his 


CONCORD. 247 

happiness. I have just been reading — no, I will not tell you 
what it is I have been reading.” 

“ Please let me see the book for a moment,” I pleaded. 

“ Not for the world ! ” exclaimed my wilful charmer, breaking 
from my embrace. And hastily picking up the volume from 
the floor, where a few moments before she had allowed it to 
fall, with a merry laugh Connie tripped lightly from the room. 

I could not pursue her, for being unacquainted with the 
geography of the house, I knew not into what trespass I might 
be tempted. 

Not many minutes elapsed before Miss Marsh reappeared 
with her maid, both dressed for walking, Connie’s pretty face, 
almost hidden beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, appearing 
like a beautiful miniature in a large frame. 

“Now, Ernest, dear, I am ready to accompany you.” 

I drew close to Connie and spoke softly to her. 

“ Valerie,” said Miss Marsh, turning to her maid, “ this 
gentleman has been so rude as to say that he would prefer to 
be without your company. You will please start for New York 
in about an hour.” 

The French girl smiled and gracefully disappeared, mur- 
muring something which sounded like “ Rien n'est beau que le 
vrai” 

The journey from Orange to New York I still remember as 
one of my most delightful experiences, surpassing even that 
trip on my uncle’s yacht when Constance first promised to be 
mine. I could not fail to remember that upon that, to me, . 
happy occasion, my dear one was distressed by an affair the 
termination of which now rejoiced her. Indeed, I now began 
to doubt if there could be found within the borders ol the 
American Union any lighter-hearted lovers than we two ; and 
I congratulated myself on my near prospect of a charming wife, 
the fortunate possessor of every esteemed attribute of that 
character. 

On reaching my uncle’s house we were welcomed by aunt 
Gertrude, in whom, notwithstanding her more than usual 


248 


HOLDENHVRST HALL. 


reserve, I thought I could detect a sense of satisfaction, not to 
say of suppressed jubilancy. Uncle Sam not being present, I 
inquired where he was. 

“ On the roof enjoying a cigar,” replied aunt Gertrude; “he 
wishes you to go up to him as soon as you conveniently can.” 

“ Go now, Ernie, dear,” whispered Constance ; “ I w T ould like 
to talk to Gertie alone for an hour ; ” and the next minute I was 
standing before uncle Sam, breathless from the haste with 
which I had mounted the stairs. 

“ So Annie would not listen to you ? ” were my uncle’s first 
words. 

“ No ; but how did you know that ? ” I asked, astonished. 

“ I saw from the window how she received you. But she 
spoke, I think. What was it she said ? ” 

“That she wanted nothing to do with anybody of our 
name.” 

“ Ah, poor girl ! I am sorry for her. Do you know, Ernest, 
I have a haunting fear that she will carry out that horrible 
threat of hers.” 

“ What ! destroy her life ? Oh, uncle, I hope not ! ” 

“ And I am sure I do ; but it is hard to say. Women are 
such uncertain creatures, so much swayed by impulse, so little 
by reason, that men who have had most to do with them some- 
times understand them least. In less than four years I have 
lavished upon that girl more money than has passed through 
the hands of every member of her family for three generations, 
and I am prepared to behave as liberally to her in the future 
as I have in the past ; yet now that I cease to personally 
associate with her because of circumstances of her own 
creation, such as I have always told her would render that 
step necessary, she renounces my gifts and threatens her own 
life.” 

u How can she live without your aid ? ” 

“ I can’t say. She has some money in hand, without doubt, 
but it must soon be exhausted ; and she owns about a 
hundred thousand francs worth of jewellery which I have given 


CONCORD. 


249 

to her at one time and another in Paris. But what is the good 
of that?” 

I made no answer, and uncle Sam went on — 

“ Well, if her acts should prove as foolish as her words, t 
shall regret it perhaps as much as anybody; but I shan’t 
reproach myself. If Annie had been less like your mother, I 
don’t suppose I should ever have noticed her. By-the-by, how 
wonderfully like she is to your mother, and how nearly you 
resemble them both ! ” 

“ I am not sure I feel flattered by that speech,” I ventured 
to observe. 

“Truth is never flattery,” said uncle Sam. “However, I 
have done my part and can do no more. If matters work out 
well, why, well ; if ill, why then they must be borne. The real 
authors of this mischief are old Wolsey and your father, who 
yeajs ago treated me villainously in respect of my engagement 
to your mother. Their breach of faith has, I am happy to 
think, at last recoiled on them both. Of course everybody 
admits that two wrongs don’t make a right ; but revenge retains 
its primitive sweetness despite that admission. At the same 
time I shouldn’t have gone out of my way to taste of it, but 
Chance set it in my path. When I consider how good a wife 
I have, how largely her fortunes have aided mine, and how 
great is her love and care for me, I frankly confess that I regret 
the whole incident, and am inclined to regard vindictiveness as 
a species of folly to be guarded against.” 

“ I am glad to hear you say that, uncle. It augurs well for 
a cherished hope of mine.” 

Uncle Sam, affecting not to perceive my allusion, went on : 

“You have been a lucky boy, Ernest, and I congratulate 
you on your good fortune. Without money, experience, or 
talent, you have won for yourself a charming young lady, whose 
dollars, beauty, and training make her a match that an English 
duke might envy. Why it is that she has so lightly agreed to 
hand over to you the command of herself and her large fortune 
passes my understanding ; for you will pardon my telling you 


250 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


plainly that I fail to discover in you any remarkable ability. 
On the contrary, you impress me as a man of feeble judgment 
and irresolute will. Your recent mission to England was 
conducted with a lamentable want of skill ; and again, to-day, 
a man of average tact would have refrained from speaking to 
Miss Wolsey in the very heat of her passion : he would have 
followed her and exerted his persuasiveness later. Don’t look 
so downcast ; if I didn’t greatly esteem you, do you suppose I 
would trouble myself to point out your weak places ? ” 

“ Isn’t your rebuke heavier than my shortcomings deserve ? ” 
I inquired timidly. 

“Not a bit ! Digest it well, and you will derive inestimable 
benefit from it ; it may induce you to cultivate caution, a quality 
which at present you greatly need, and will need yet more when 
your lucky stars have endowed you with the control of Connie’s 
dollars ; for you must know that to hold money is second in 
difficulty only to the acquisition of it : nay, to some natures, its 
retention is the more difficult feat. I would earnestly advise 
you not to speculate with any portion of Connie’s fortune, but 
to be content with its present disposition, chosen for the most 
part by her father — as clear-headed a man as ever owned a 
railroad. With its present investments, all made with a view 
to security rather than high rate of interest, you can draw 
dividends enormously in excess of your utmost requirements. 
As neither you nor your fathers before you have ever had any 
money to speak of, there is some danger that in your new and 
luxurious circumstances you may lose your head ; and it is that 
contingency I would warn you against. Why don’t you light a 
cigar ? ” 

This speech removed somewhat of the depressing effect 
produced by the destructive criticism which preceded it, and 
under the soothing influence of the weed I soon recovered my 
equanimity. 

“Your disposition,” continued uncle Sam, “unless I entirely 
misread it, is affectionate and domestic ; and with so charming 
ft wife as yours will prove, you ought easily to avoid such folly 


CONCORD. 


251 


as mine. If you don’t, you will lack even such excuse as I 
can make, and that I don’t find many people accept as 
satisfactory. Besides, you must never forget that Connie is a 
clever, observant girl. When I say clever, I don’t mean you 
to infer that she knows anything about Greek quantities, or that 
she has projected any new theory for the sewing on of shirt 
buttons or the reconstitution of society, but her discernment is 
such that it would not be easy for a man of your parts to play 
her false, while it would be eminently unprofitable for you to 
be foiled in the attempt.” 

“ Nothing is further from my thoughts than such baseness,” 
I protested warmly. 

“ I don’t in the least doubt it ; but for your own sake as well as 
for Connie’s, watch that you may not lapse from your present 
right thinking. Have you arranged when the event is to come 
off, and do you intend to acquaint your father with the 
important step you are about to take ? ” 

“ I shall ask Connie to-morrow, or this evening if I get the 
chance, to name the day when she will make me the happiest 
man in the world ; and at the same time I shall acquaint her 
with my impatience of delay. I shall not inform my father. 
Connie has promised to negotiate peace with him after we are 
married.” 

“ Ha ! and how are you off for money ? Got none, I 
suppose.” 

“ Oh, not quite so bad as that ! I have the four thousand 
two hundred dollars you gave me this morning intact, and the 
greater part of the thousand dollars which you gave me just 
before I went to England.” 

“ You are no spendthrift, I am glad to find ; but the sums 
you mention are quite useless to a man about to take a wife, 
for although in your case the wife will be wealthy, there will be 
many things which must, if only for decency’s sake, be paid 
for by you and by no other. Of course you will want to 
travel for two or three months before you make your final plans 
for settlement, and during that time you will appear to better 


252 


HOLDENHURST HALL . 


advantage if you refrain from drawing upon your wife’s estate, 
so I will place a sum of money to your credit at Drexel’s, and 
provide you with a cheque-book. You may regard it as a loan 
and return it to me later, if you will ; or you may accept it as 
a gift — just which you prefer.” 

With these words my uncle rose from his seat and cast away 
the end of his cigar, paying not the least attention to the 
thanks with which I greeted his extraordinary offer. “ I must 
really smoke less tobacco,” he said ; “ that makes my eighth 
cigar to-day, and it is not yet three o’clock. I have smoked 
more this week than I generally smoke in a month — I suppose 
because of the worry I’ve been subject to. O Lord, I wish I 
knew that that girl was safe ! ” 

As my uncle turned to accompany me downstairs I noticed 
that the expression of his face betrayed considerable anxiety, 
and that his general demeanour lacked much of its accustomed 
buoyancy. 


XXX. 


UNCLE SAM DOWN. 


’Tis strange, the stubborn pride of puny man 
Who rates his strength the. equal of his hope, 

And wots not of his littleness until, 

Touched by the Unseen Power, his forces fail. 

About three weeks after the events related in the last chapter 
I sat writing in a beautiful room which my uncle had ordered 
to be specially arranged and set apart for my use for so long 
as I remained his guest, when Constance unexpectedly entered 
and smilingly handed me a letter. Having accepted the missive 
and paid its fair carrier with that which among lovers is 
accounted current coin, I moved from the table to a settee near 
the window ; for no one could have too much light who 
attempted to decipher the caligraphy of the Rev. Mr Price, 
which consisted of a series of hastily scrawled symbols 
without the remotest resemblance to any known letter — in 
brief, that kind of writing which breeds errors, blinds 
compositors, maddens proof-readers, and moves the irritable 
to profanity. It took me at the least ten minutes to acquaint 
myself with the writer’s meaning, and while I was so engaged 
my faithful Connie sat on the floor at my feet and toyed with 
three sequins which had recently been attached to my watch 
chain — the identical coins alleged to have been found in the 
room which my uncle occupied the last time he stayed at 
Holdenhurst Hall. 

“ Can you make it all out ? * asked Connie, looking up. 


254 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


“ All but a few words, dear,” I answered ; and then pro- 
ceeded to read the following letter aloud : — 


No. — , East Fifty- ninth Street, 
New York Citt, October 27, 18 — . 

Dear Miss Marsh, — This day, the eve of my departure 
for England, I have received from the worthy rector of 
Holdenhurst Major, the Rev. Mr Silas Fuller, my esteemed 
friend and former colleague, intelligence of a grave nature 
that my Christian conscience will not permit me to conceal 
from you, though in acquainting you therewith I incur a risk 
of being credited with low and personal motives. 

The Rev. Mr Fuller informs me that on the ult., an 

old man, who had been for many years in the service of Mr 
Robert Truman, died very suddenly, from some unexplained 
cause, during an altercation with Mr Ernest Truman. The 
altercation, which was in part overheard by another servant, 
is supposed to have related to money. Circumstances attend- 
ing the burial of the old butler are no less suspicious than the 
manner of his death, interment having taken place by virtue 
of a certificate given by the local doctor, a personal friend of 
the Trumans. A few of the more intelligent among the 
inhabitants of Holdenhurst are asking (not unreasonably, I 
think) why an inquest was not held, and are hazarding various 
guesses as to what circumstances the Truman family desired 
to conceal in avoiding so rightful a course. 

Though to my lasting regret there may never be any love 
between us, I trust that my respect for your honour and 
happiness is undiminished ; and I earnestly hope you may see 
fit to assure yourself, ere it be too late, of the character of the 
man you have engaged to marry, as I am unable to contem- 
plate without the most painful feelings your alliance with a 
man upon whom rests the suspicion of manslaughter or worse. 
— Believe me, dear Miss Marsh, always your faithful friend, 

Evan Price. 


UNCLE SAM DOWN. 


255 


“ What a mean, spiteful fellow Mr Price is, to be sure ! ” 
exclaimed Constance. “ I never liked the expression of that 
man’s face, nor his manner, but I am surprised he should 
write such a letter as that. What good can he hope to get 
from it?” 

“ Don’t you see, dear, how much he would like to separate 
us? I have already told you the facts upon which he has 
based this letter.” 

“ Yes, Ernest, and please don’t tell me again. I’m afraid 
I’m a little tired of speaking and thinking about these things ” 
— alluding to the sequins which she was turning round and 
round with her delicate white fingers. “But suppose Mr 
Price could separate us, how would that benefit him? He 
knows I would not marry him in any case. I have told him 
so in plain words many a time.” 

“Spiteful and mischievous as the man is, I don’t in the 
least doubt, my dear Connie, but that he loves you as sincerely 
as his nature allows him to love. Indeed it is difficult to 
conceive of any man not loving you who has once seen you, 
and it is the quality of love never to entirely despair of achieving 
its object until that object is irrevocably lost. This letter was 
written yesterday, so by now Mr Price is on his way to 
England. Before he reaches Liverpool you will be my wife, 
and when he learns that fact perhaps he will cease to interest 
himself in our affairs. Only six days ! Fancy that, pet ! ” 

“ Yes, fancy it ! How sudden it has all been ! I am in 
disgrace with myjriends for deserting them, and in defending 
myself I have laid the blame upon you for monopolising my 
time. I say, Ernie, dear, one of the six girls whom I have 
asked to be bridesmaids has declined.” 

“ Who is she?” I inquired. 

“ Miss Christison — you know who I mean ; the young lady 
who can’t marry without losing her fortune.” 

“ O yes ; I remember her. Who will take her place ? ” 

“ Inez Juarrez.” 


256 


HOLDENHURST HALE . 


“ You must forgive Miss Christison on account of her absurd 
and cruel circumstances.” 

“ Of course, dear, but ” 

At that moment our conversation was interrupted by the 
loud and continuous ringing of electric bells within the house and 
the hasty running of servants up and down the stairs. Constance 
and I started to our feet and listened for a moment, and the 
confusion continuing, we left the room to ascertain its cause. 
Outside the door, upon the landing, we met my aunt Gertrude, 
who was descending the stairs dressed for going out, and I no 
sooner saw her face, veiled though it was, than I perceived 
that she was painfully agitated. 

“ What is the matter ? ” we both asked as with one voice. 

“ Oh, Connie, dear, don’t stop me ! A clerk at Mills 
Building has just telephoned to say that Sam has been seized 
with sudden illness, and I am not to lose a moment in going 
to him. I fear he is dead, though they say he is not.” 

“ Dead ! Impossible ! An hour ago he was here and 
well ! ” 

But aunt Gertrude could not hear the exclamations either of 
her sister or me, for she had scarcely paused in her descent 
while imparting this terrible information. A world of confused 
and painful thoughts filled my mind, and a strange pallor 
overspread the face of the dear one at my side; the colour 
faded from her lips, and but for my timely support she would 
have fallen. The next moment the street door was heard to 
close, and the carriage containing aunt Gertrude was driven 
rapidly away. 

Leading Constance back into the room, we both sat down 
upon a couch and regarded each other in silence. I consulted 
my watch ; the hour wanted twenty minutes to midday. Uncle 
Sam had left home to go to his office at ten o’clock, he being 
then in sound health and high spirits. Constance was the first 
to speak. “ I can’t believe, Ernie, dear,” she said, “ that 
anything very serious can be the matter, though Gertrude 
seems so frightened. How could there be ? ” But the 


UNCLE SAM DOWN 


2 57 


unconcealed agitation of the fair speaker belied her words, 
and I was in no condition to support them by argument. 
“ Let us go into Sam’s study and inquire by the telephone how 
he is now,” she presently added. 

“Yes, certainly; that is a good thought. But doesn’t uncle 
keep his study locked ? ” 

“Yes; but Gertie also has a key of it, and I don’t suppose 
she stayed to lock it in her haste.” 

The suggestion was no sooner made than adopted, and the 
study door being open, as Connie had surmised, she entered and 
at once made her inquiry. I can never forget her appearance as 
she stood with the tube applied to her ear, her youthful beauty 
showing grandly despite the pallor induced by her anxiety, 
while I watched with deadly interest the varying expressions of 
her face as a clerk at Mills Building informed her of uncle 
Sam’s condition. Presently Connie restored the tube to its 
place, and throwing her arms around my neck, burst into tears 
in the manner of one whose fortitude fails at unexpected 
release from some supreme dread. 

“ What has happened ? ” I asked, catching my breath. 

“Sam learned on his arrival at his office that Miss Wolsey 
had died suddenly in Paris, and the news so upset him that 
he talked incoherently for a time, and then had some sort ot 
seizure, greatly frightening his clerks ; but he is conscious now, 
and Gertie is with him.” 

There are few tasks which the complex relations of human- 
kind impose upon us more painful or difficult than being 
called to comfort a sorrowful one whose burden presses with 
equal or with greater weight upon ourselves, and I could 
scarce restrain my own grief while endeavouring to pacify 
Constance, whose agitation arose entirely from the present 
circumstances of uncle Sam and aunt Gertrude — circumstances 
which, though I was by no means indifferent to them, were in 
my case obscured by consideration of the tragedy in Paris. 
Constance Marsh had never seen Annie Wolsey, nor was it 
until quite recent days that she had been informed of the 


258 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


existence of that unhappy woman ; and not only that, but for 
other and stronger reasons it would have been absurd to expect 
that Constance should regard the death of her s : $ter’s rival other- 
wise than as the welcome extinction of an unseen but potent 
power for mischief. While recognising this to the full, I could 
not but think of the girl-companion of my childhood ; of how 
after Annie’s brothers and sisters had one by one all been laid 
to rest in the shadow of Holdenhurst church she alone 
remained, and was the one delight of her widowed father’s 
life ; of how, later, she had fled from he who loved her so 
well, and how tirelessly he had sought her again until at last 
his efforts were crowned with success, though only to precipitate 
the needless and awful waste of her young life. I thought also 
of the cruel effect this disaster must necessarily have upon my 
grandfather, and wondered if that careworn old man was yet 
acquainted with it, and whether Annie had taken her child’s 
life as well as her own. The fear to which my uncle had 
several times given expression being now realised, it occurred 
to me that its ill effects upon my powerful friend, said to be 
already severe, might possibly be of a permanent character. 
Something of these troublesome thoughts and speculations must 
have been apparent in my face to have induced Connie to 
smile at me through her tears, and to repeat those vows with 
which we had consoled each other in previous difficulties — 
that come what might, and we were both alive, nothing 
should again separate us. 

Constance and I quitted the study and returned to my room. 
When asked to decipher Mr Price’s letter I was engaged in 
making a fair copy of a list of my future wife’s possessions, 
which uncle Sam had roughly drawn up for my use — a heavy 
task, to which I had already devoted two whole days. Though 
not more than three-fourths of my transcript was completed 
perceived I was too disturbed to advantageously apply myself 
to it again that day, and therefore hastily put away my papers 
and devoted myself to Constance. After nearly an hour had 
been spent in a profitless exchange of opinions and the ventur- 


UNCLE SAM DOWN 


259 


ing of various surmises, we decided to go together to Mills 
Building and ascertain by actual observation exactly upon what 
our anxiety was founded. 

When we arrived at Mills Building we found my uncle’s 
offices deserted by all but one clerk, and the usual business of 
the place suspended for the rest of the day. Telegraphic tape 
was automatically unwinding from a score or more cylinders, 
and falling unread into the baskets placed to receive it. On 
my uncle’s desk, in an inner private room, lay a pile of corre- 
spondence, the greater part unopened. The clerk in charge 
was brushing his hat preparatory to locking the doors and 
departing, and had we been a few minutes later we should 
have found the office closed. From this individual we learned 
that Mr Truman had become violently agitated immediately 
after reading a letter, the envelope of which bore the Paris 
postmark ; that he had rapidly paced up and down his room, 
incoherently talking to himself meanwhile ; and that altogether 
his behaviour had been so extremely different from his usual 
habit of self-possession that the people about him became 
alarmed. Mr Truman’s secretary, Mr Fisk, who enjoyed his 
employer’s confidence more than anybody else, took the letter 
from Mr Truman’s unresisting hands, and read it to ascertain 
what had created this disturbance. The letter, which was very 
brief and couched in affectionate terms, stated that the writer 
would that night seek oblivion in the waters of the Seine, and 
that she commended her innocent son to his care. It bore the 
signature of Annie Wolsey. 

“ And how is Mr Truman now ? ” I inquired. “ Is he better, 
and has he gone home with Mrs Truman?” 

“ I think he is better than he was,” replied the clerk. “ We 
were afraid he had become crazy, and sent for Dr Herrmann. 
Dr Herrmann, who arrived before Mrs Truman, said that Mr 
Truman was suffering from intense excitement, but that with 
proper treatment there was no cause for alarm. The doctor 
soon afterwards took his patient to Astor House, where he 


now is. 


26 o 


HOLDENHLRS 7 HALL . 


Astor House, is a hotel about two minutes’ walk from Mills 
Building, and thither Constance and I at once repaired without 
waiting to hear anything more the clerk had to tell. There 
in a private room we found uncle Sam, attended by his wife 
and Dr Herrmann. The two latter were making preparations 
to take their patient to his home, for which'purpose a carriage 
waited at the door. My uncle, who was lying on a couch, 
appeared very depressed, and the expression of his eyes struck 
me as peculiar — quite unlike anything I had observed before. 
He took not the least notice of Connie or me, but turned his 
face towards the wall soon after we entered the room, and 
pressed his hand to his forehead as if in pain. I seized the 
opportunity while Connie was quietly conferring with her sister 
to ask Dr Herrmann what he thought of the case. 

“ Mr Truman has always overworked himself,” said the 
doctor, “and there is some danger of brain trouble consequent 
on the bad news he has received ; but it may very likely be 
avoided with care and quietude. He is a man of immense 
vitality.” 

At the moment of our arrival at the hotel preparations were 
in progress for getting my uncle back to his own house. This 
was not easy to do, as he could not be got even for one moment 
to speak or think of anything but the news from Paris ; and he 
seemed to resent the presence of anybody except his wife, 
though he did not so express himself. However, Dr Herrmann 
and I with some difficulty succeeded in inducing him to enter 
the carriage, and he started for East Thirty-fourth Street 
accompanied by his wife and doctor, Constance and I return- 
ng by another way. 

As soon as uncle Sam arrived home he was put to bed in a 
> darkened room and ice was applied to his head, the patient 
submitting to these unpleasant arrangements without making 
the least protest — an additional proof, if any were needed, of 
how completely his mind was absorbed in painful contemplation 
of the tragedy which he had so much feared. 

After Dr Herrmann had departed, aunt Gertrude took me 


UNCLE SAM DOWN. 


261 


aside. “ I fear your uncle is down for a serious illness,” she 
said. “ I am told he must be kept very quiet, and to ensure 
that I will nurse him myself. But he wearies me and distresses 
himself by begging without cessation that I will go to Paris 
and take charge of — of that Englishwoman’s son, and bring 
him here. I would not hesitate to do so if my husband were 
well ; but I dare not, I will not, leave him in his present state. 
Will you help me ? ” 

This appeal, the purport of which I could not misinterpret, 
alarmed me greatly. “ I would gladly go to any part of the 
world on your business,” I answered quickly, “ if only it lay in 
my power to do so ; and, apart from my love for Constance, I 
can think of nothing more gratifying than doing anything to 
oblige you or uncle Sam, but I have sworn an oath that I will 
never again leave your sister until she is my wife, and she is 
pledged to me in equal terms.” 

Aunt Gertrude smiled faintly. Perhaps she was thinking of 
lovers’ vows, and of her own experience of their value. “ I 
have already telegraphed to three of our friends in Paris,” she 
said, “ urging them to discover and protect the child at any 
cost, and to let us know as soon as possible that this has been 
done ; but I have not yet received arty replies.” 

“You have not allowed sufficient time. It is barely two 
hours since you were summoned to Mills Building.” 

“ I have already assured your uncle that if the child can be 
found I will adopt it as my own, and that assurance has rallied 
him more than anything else that has been said or done. If 
only I could show him a telegram, proving that the child is 
now in good hands, I think he would soon be himself again.” 

“ I believe you will receive such a telegram some time to day.” 

“We will hope so,” said aunt Gertrude quietly. And having 
uttered these words she returned to her husband’s room, and I 
sought Constance. 


XXXI. 


AT NEWPORT. 

When coward-making Conscience bulks immense, 

Calm Reason flies, Oblivion drowns each sense, 

Until, despite infinity of pains, 

Each tortured faculty itself regains ; 

And even then, with past events opprest. 

Cruel Memory denies her victim rest. 

In silence Madness lies ; but idle words 
The Conscience-smitten some relief affords. 

Uncle Sam rapidly became worse after he returned home, and 
soon his condition excited the utmost alarm. Two renowned 
American physicians exerted their skill for the benefit of the 
patient, who was never left without the attendance of one or 
other of them. He was said to be suffering from phrenitic 
meningitis, induced by too prolonged tension of the faculties 
— an inflated way of describing the simple fact that his mind 
had temporarily succumbed under the anxiety and grief to 
which it had been subjected. 

For many weeks aunt Gertrude nursed her husband with 
untiring devotion, and in her anxiety that nothing should be 
neglected or ill done she did much work which might well 
have been left to other hands My marriage to Constance was 
indefinitely postponed, and no thought given to any matter 
but the present condition of the patient, for whom even his 
physicians acknowledged that they feared the worst. 

Mrs Fisk, wife of my uncle’s confidential secretary, was 
induced by aunt Gertrude to undertake a journey to Paris for 
the purpose of bringing to New York the young boy whose 
welfare seemed more than all else to engage my uncle’s lucid 


A'l NEWPORT. 


263 


moments. Meanwhile telegrams arrived assuring us that the 
child was well and in good hands, which assurances were duly 
conveyed to the patient, on whom they appeared to have a 
beneficial effect. 

At this period my eyes were first opened to certain pecu- 
liarities of American journalism. The sudden withdrawal of 
Samuel Truman from the financial world of New York greatly 
interested the editors of the numerous newspapers which flour- 
ish in that city, and not a day passed without publication 
them of long and for the most part apocryphal accounts of his 
condition, and yet longer and wholly apocryphal speculations 
thereon. To obtain the slender information out of which this 
verbose twaddle was ingeniously spun, an intermittent tin- 
tinnabulation was kept up at the street-door the whole day by 
brazen-faced emissaries from The Trumpeter, The Defender, 
The Thunderer, The Luminary, and The Globe, who with the 
most unblushing effrontery plied everybody who passed through 
the hall with questions more or less relevant to the business 
they had come upon. At an early stage of my uncle’s illness, 
while I was as yet unaware how utterly unscrupulous and shame- 
less is the American interviewer, I courteously spoke, perhaps 
for five minutes, to a reporter who represented The Message, 
an evening offshoot of The Trumpeter. Accidentally taking up 
a copy of The Message a few hours later, to my intense disgust 
I discovered therein two columns of matter purporting to be 
what I had said, while another half column was devoted to an 
analytical account of my personal appearance, the whole pesti- 
lent farrago of lies and nonsense being garnished with a dozen 
or so alliterative headlines set in large type. The colour of 
my hair and eyes, the pattern of my necktie, the set of my 
trousers about the knees, together with many other less impor- 
tant particulars of a personal nature, were all duly chronicled 
for the delectation of the intelligent American public. 

Week after week passed away, and still the patient hovered 
uncertainly between life and death. Mrs Fisk safely returned 
to New York with her infant charge, a handsome, bright-eyed, 


264 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


intelligent boy of exceeding vivacity, happily ignorant of his 
mother’s fate and his father’s danger. The little stranger, 
instead of being regarded as an unwelcome addition to my 
uncle’s family, as might not unreasonably have been expected, 
was received by aunt Gertrude with the tenderest consideration, 
and everything needful for his wellbeing was provided. By 
sundry apparently trivial but really profoundly significant words 
and acts aunt Gertrude, in whom, though she was a childless 
wife, the maternal instinct was strongly implanted, soon showed 
that the new-comer had found a place no less in her heart than 
in her house. Though my uncle was informed of the arrival 
of “ the cardinal ” — a style and title by which it appeared he 
had from the first designated his son — the doctors for the 
present forbade the child being presented to their patient. 
The nature of my uncle’s business was such that it necessarily 
came to a standstill so soon as his direction of it ceased — a 
direction which hitherto he had never failed to exercise, per- 
sonally when in New York City, and telegraphically when 
absent therefrom. Mr Fisk was regular in his attendance 
every morning at my uncle’s house, and never failed to report 
the patient’s condition to a host of his inquiring friends. 

And thus November and the greater part of December 
passed away, the spirits of the little household in East Thirty- 
fourth Street being raised one day only to be dashed the next, 
according to the changeable condition of the patient, whose 
malady once or twice touched a point of extreme danger. 
But at the near approach of Christmas, when New York City 
lay covered with a thick ipantle of snow and the sky was none 
the less clear because the temperature was extremely cold and 
icicles of prodigious length depended from parapet and case- 
ment, the patient took a very decided turn for the better. He 
talked less and more rationally, and was generally calmer ; and 
he slept better and partook of more nourishment. 

Though my uncle’s medical advisers were not, at the first 
appearance of these signs, assured they portended a favourable 
issue, they did not hesitate to recognise in the good symptoms, 


AT NEWPORT \ 265 

after they had endured for some days unabated, the beginning 
of complete recovery. 

And so indeed it appeared. By the middle of January 
uncle Sam had so far recovered that he was permitted to sit 
by the fire in his room, and there one day he dispassionately 
discussed with me the tragedy which, to quote his own words, 
had “thrown him off his balance.” His wife’s loving care of 
“ the cardinal ” occasioned him much satisfaction, which he 
gratefully acknowledged in various ways ; and it is to that 
circumstance I have always attributed, more than to all else 
besides, his complete recovery. At this juncture “the 
cardinal ” was taken every morning by aunt Gertrude into the 
patient’s room, where he was permitted to frisk about like a 
spaniel at his father’s feet, and his gambols and his 
pertinent replies to questions which he could not possibly 
understand amused and delighted everybody present. 

In the early stages of the patient’s convalescence it was 
customary for Connie and me to read to him in turn. The 
reading was always selected by uncle Sam, and consisted for 
the most part of the daily papers and current fiction. One 
day I ventured to inquire if he would care to listen to some 
literature of a higher standard — a choice work by one of the 
great poets, for instance. 

“No, no,” said uncle Sam; “not for the world. I like 
poetry too well.” 

I confessed my inability to understand this reply, 

“Poets,” remarked uncle Sam, “are a pitiable handful of 
creatures. Their divine gifts are compensated by powerless- 
ness to cope with the manifold treacheries of mankind, and 
consequent starvation and misery; and though by some 
strange accident one of the tribe not long ago slipped into the 
House of Lords, that was a blunder which will not be 
repeated; the majority gravitate quite naturally to the work- 
house. I love poetry, but can never read it without my heart 
aching for the poor wretch who expended his brain power in 
profitlessly weaving it. No, no, Ernest; open The Trumpeter 


266 


HOLDENHVRS T HALL. 


and tell me whether the Rothschilds have succeeded in floating 
that loan for the Austrian Government.” 

Slowly but surely the patient regained strength ; but 
February was almost spent before the doctors would sanction 
his removal to Newport. Not until after he was able to go 
about the house unaided did the permanent changes wrought 
in him by the illness through which he had passed become 
fully apparent, and then it was seen that his once light brown 
hair had become almost entirely grey, that there were lines in 
his face which had not been observed before his illness, and 
that his step was a trifle slower and less elastic than of old. I 
thought his cheerfulness and his frank cynicism had escaped 
unaffected until he surprised me one morning by informing his 
friend, Mr Rosenberg, in my presence, that it was his intention 
as soon as he returned from Newport to close his speculative 
business affairs, and devote his remaining days to safeguarding 
such dollars as he had already acquired, leaving the pursuit of 
wealth to younger or more ardent spirits. 

By the opening of March uncle Sam’s family — in which, of 
course, I include myself, for long before this time I was 
regarded by everybody as properly belonging thereto — were 
comfortably settled in his villa at Newport, Rhode Island, 
where it was thought the ocean breezes and continued with- 
drawal from business cares might restore him to his former 
condition of mental and physical vigour. 

Chatham Villa is one of the numerous artistic summer 
houses which abound in the southern portion of Rhode Island, 
and stands in extensive pleasure - grounds overlooking 
Narragansett Bay. As yet the weather was very cold for 
living in such an open situation, but the sky was almost always 
clear and bright, and scarcely a day of the seven weeks that 
we remained on the island passed without Constance and me, 
thickly clad with furs, taking an invigorating walk, in which 
exercises we were sometimes accompanied by my uncle and aunt, 
the former of whom would point out where the eight thousand 
British troops and their Hessian mercenaries were quartered 


AT NEWPORT. 


267 


during the American Revolution, and the wastes where once 
flourished the fine groves which they cut down for fuel ; and 
he would sometimes further describe how my countrymen had 
destroyed nearly five hundred of the houses and all the 
shipping then harboured there. 

Although, all things considered, I must always look back 
upon my first sojourn at Newport with much gratification — 
indeed it could hardly be otherwise, for I enjoyed the almost 
uninterrupted company of Constance while I was there — I was 
rejoiced as the period fixed for our stay drew towards its close ; 
and that for the best of all possible reasons. 

Before leaving New York it had been arranged that 
Constance and I were to be married at the Presbyterian 
Church on Fifth Avenue, the first day of May, and we were to 
return to the city one week prior to that event. In accordance 
with the wish of everybody concerned, the ceremony was to be 
of the simplest possible character, and an hour after its 
accomplishment we were to leave for Saratoga, where a suite of 
rooms had been engaged for us at the Grand Union Hotel. 

Preoccupied as I was with the anticipation of my approach- 
ing happiness, I could never forget my father, and in my more 
reflective moments was disturbed at hearing no news of him, 
either directly or indirectly ; but I could not think of any 
better way of amending the unfortunate rupture between us 
than that which Constance had proposed — a plan not yet 
practicable, increasing my already great impatience with the 
slow-moving hours. 

The eve of our return to New York at length arrived. 
April was drawing to its close, and the weather was so genial that 
we sat with comfort in a group by the opened glass doors 
which lead on to the verandah that overlooks the bay. Uncle 
Sam and I were smoking, a habit which by long use our 
respective ladies had grown to tolerate at all sorts of unseason- 
able times and places. Aunt Gertrude was engaged working a 
monogram in silken characters on a strange-looking purse of 
fine network which she had designed for her sister, while the 


268 


HOLDENHURST HALL . 


latter nestled at my side wistfully turning over an album of 
photographs. “ The cardinal ” had just been carried off to bed 
by his nurse, after amusing us for ten minutes by an exhibition 
of his precocity, his customary evening privilege. Uncle Sam 
was in high spirits, and more like his former self than at any 
time since his illness. After intently observing his wife’s work 
for some minutes (my aunt had completed the C and was now 
outlining a T, not an M), he suddenly exclaimed, “Ernest, 
you are a lucky dog,” to which inelegant assertion I signified 
my assent, at the same time taking Connie’s hand in mine. 

“Scores of English lords, heavily weighted with titles and 
debts, sigh in vain for an achievement such as yours,” con- 
tinued uncle Sam. “ What a pity it is that man, always quick 
to perceive his misfortunes, is so frequently blind to the good 
things which fall to his share ! ” 

“ That will never be my case,” I observed. 

“So / thought,” said uncle Sam; “but” — breaking off 
suddenly and pursuing another line of thought — “ marriage is 
the most discussed yet least understood of human institutions. 
Though women so greatly outnumber men, good wives are as 
scarce as good husbands. Of course nothing can counter- 
balance the want of good personal qualities in either husband 
or wife, but there can be no matrimonial paragon who is 
unfurnished with dollars. I remember in my salad days, soon 
after I settled in this country, Van Rensselaer and I once 
amused ourselves by making some investigations as to the 
condition of the marriage market.” 

“What do you mean, Sam?” asked aunt Gertrude, looking 
up from her work. 

“About twenty years ago,” continued my uncle, “there 
lived in Rivington Street, New York, a matrimonial agent, who 
used to advertise in the daily papers that he was prepared to 
supply wives of every desirable quality to gentlemen of 
unblemished honour and respectable means, while of course 
his usefulness to ladies weary of single blessedness was equally 
great. To this professor’s office Van Rensselaer and I one 


AT NEWPORT. 


269 


day betook ourselves, and each planked down a fee of five 
dollars, which the agent, with a grateful smile, made haste to 
appropriate.” 

“What induced you to be so foolish?” asked my aunt. 

“ Sport, my dear Gertie, sport ; nothing more, I assure you,” 
said uncle Sam. 

“ Why, what sport could you find in giving your money to 
a cheat ? ” 

“ Very much ; my five dollars were well invested. Admission 
to the agent’s office alone was worth the fee. Ha ! ha ! I 
remember the place to this day,” and uncle Sam reclined his 
head on the back of his chair, and chuckled. 

“ What was the place like ? ” I inquired. 

“It was a fairly well-furnished office,” said uncle Sam. 
“ The walls were covered with shelves, on which stood letter 
cases and japanned tin boxes. In a corner of the office, on 
an elevated platform, a bald-headed old fraud of about sixty, 
the proprietor of the place, sat at a desk plentifully spread 
with ledgers. Packets of letters, held together by rubber 
bands, and piles of photographs, lay about in confusion, while 
close to the door stood a large table strewn with writing 
materials and printed forms whereon clients might concisely 
state their qualifications and requirements.” 

“ Did the agent show you any of the photographs ? ” asked 
Constance. 

“ Dozens of them. One lady in particular I remember he 
recommended as a very suitable wife for me, his recom- 
mendation being based chiefly on the fact that she was an 
Englishwoman who, having passed the first blush of her youth 
(a statement which nobody who had glanced at her photograph 
would for a moment question), was free of the frivolities which 
usually accompany girlhood, and having been for some years a 
member of the London music-hall profession, she was an 
accomplished vocalist, who could divert my leisure with 
charming songs of an amusing character, many of them 
unknown to the best musicians. These qualities, the agent 


270 


HOLDENHURST HALL, 


argued, more than compensated for the lady’s lack of pro- 
perty.” 

“ Was that all the old man told you about her ? ” I 
inquired. 

“ I think it was,” replied uncle Sam. “ But I wrote to her 
the next day under the assumed name of Holdenhurst, and a 
day or so afterwards received her reply, dated from the Bowery, 
couched in orthography which I had not previously met with. 
One of her statements — that her dear pa had been killed some 
years before by a fall from a scaffold in the Old Bailey — 
impressed me as a very pleasant way of describing an 
unpleasant fact.” 

At this point I interrupted uncle Sam with my immoderate 
laughter, much to the surprise of aunt Gertrude and Constance, 
who, being imperfectly acquainted with London, perceived 
nothing to laugh at. 

“How about Mr Van Rensselaer? ” asked Constance, when 
my paroxysm of laughter had subsided sufficiently for her voice 
to be heard. “Did the agent recommend any of his clients 
as a suitable wife for that ugly old Dutchman ? ” 

“Gently, Connie, please. Martin Van Rensselaer was a 
capital fellow, as good a judge of a railroad as was the Great 
Commodore himself; and his advice was always sound in 
matters where he was not personally interested. Poor old 
Martin is now beyond the veil against which I have been 
blindly beating.” 

“Yes, I know,” persisted Constance; “but you have not 
answered my question. Did the agent recommend a wife 
for your friend as he did for you ? If so, I would like to hear 
about her.” 

“ I’m afraid I can’t oblige you in that, Con ; but of course 
the agent made a recommendation. It was his business to 
do so to everybody who consulted him.” 

“ Mr Van Rensselaer didn’t win his wife by such means as 
that, I am sure,” observed aunt Gertrude. 

“ So am I,” added uncle Sam. 


A 7 NEWPORT. 2?1 

“ Do you think, Sam, any marriage was ever brought about 
by such horrid methods?” my aunt inquired. 

“Without doubt, abundance of them,” replied uncle Sam 
unhesitatingly. “Nothing that was ever said is more true 
than that humankind are mostly fools. And it is well that 
such is the case. Were it otherwise, then probably, though no 
one would starve, nobody would be able to live well. It is 
in the follies of his fellow-creatures that a sharp man finds 
his chances of aggrandisement. If that were not so, how 
could a host of professional politicians wax so exceeding fat 
in a country with democratic institutions such as exist here? 
The matrimonial agent of Rivington Street trangressed no law 
that I know of, or that I would enact were I invested with the 
attributes of Solon. He merely preyed upon fools — a perfectly 
legitimate process, sanctioned by the doctrine of the survival 
of the fittest. Pass me the cigar-case, Gertie, dear.” 

“ Were you and your friend fools when you visited that office 
in Rivington Street?” inquired Connie, with a mischievous 
smile. 

“Unquestionably we were,” admitted uncle Sam, with 
charming frankness, “ and on many other occasions besides.” 

“ Nothing can ever induce me to believe that it is right to use 
superior natural gifts or knowledge to entrap the inexperienced 
and unwary,” said my aunt. 

“ Power is its own justification. That which a man can do 
he may do.” 

“ That is not right,” asserted aunt Gertrude boldly. 

“Nothing is right, nor likely to be,” agreed uncle Sam. 


XXXII. 


E vprjKa. 

The wanton fates, with teasing hand, 

Spread gorgeous gifts on treach’rous sand, 

By rocky paths and boundless main 
Fenced off from all who would them gain — 

All Lut the few (apart how far !) 

Who, bjrn beneath some luckier star, 

Chancing their kind regards to meet, 

Have treasures scattered at their feet. 

What is time? The past has gone and cannot be recalled; 
the present is here, but imperfectly under our control ; the 
future no man knows. Is there another subject which man- 
kind regards in ways so numerous and diverse as time, the 
most generic and indefinite of terms ? Only for the miserable 
wretch condemned to die on an appointed day do the fleeting 
hours expire with maddening rapidity ; to the sufferer from 
any other form of torture they drag their course with most 
exasperating slowness. It is the privilege of the perfectly 
happy (if indeed there be any such) and the perfectly foolish 
(of whom everyone must surely know abundant examples) to 
disregard time. 

The week which elapsed between our return to New York 
and my marriage to Constance seemed to me of supernaturally 
long duration. Love is impatient, and dressmakers and 
milliners monopolising. Though living in the same house as 
my affianced wife, I now saw very little of her ; she was nearly 
always engaged in being measured, or fitted, or experimented 


JLvprjKa. 


273 


upon in some way by a contingent of French modistes, who 
came every day to the house and disorganised all its customary 
arrangements. Of the numerous dresses being prepared for 
my wife, though I heard a good deal about them, I was not 
for the present permitted to see one ; but I would have 
endured that privation without murmuring if the companion- 
ship of my dear Constance had been spared to me. 

However, all things come to those who wait — unless Death 
come first and capture the waiters, in which case the latter 
escape from their wants. Man’s comfort is not more depend- 
ent upon events than upon their convenient sequence, a course 
often difficult to secure. Many an impecunious debtor, when 
his bill to some usurious son of Abraham has matured during 
the life of an old valetudinarian relative on whose demise he 
depended to meet it, has sighed over his powerlessness to 
transpose events. 

At last the wedding morning came and I was almost happy. 
Ah, that word almost ! Has the man yet lived of whom it 
could be truthfully said that he was quite happy ? Long and 
varied experience makes me doubt it. With health, youth, 
and strength ; a hundred thousand dollars to my credit at 
Drexel’s ; and a beautiful girl, magnificently dowered, for my 
wife; for what more could I wish, you ask. Why, for my 
father’s presence this day and his approval of the lifelong 
contract I was about to make. Somehow, I could not keep 
from thinking of my father on this my wedding morning ; and 
as I waited with uncle Sam and a small party of his friends in 
the Presbyterian Church on Fifth Avenue, where the ceremony 
was to take place, the old church at Holdenhurst, its unlike- 
ness to the sacred building wherein I was, my father’s lonely 
life now that I had left him, and the probable effect of the 
recent tragedy upon him and my grandfather Wolsey, largely 
engaged my mind, despite all efforts I could make to disregard 
them ; until the orgah, pealing forth the soul-stirring strains of 
Mendelssohn’s Wedding March , announced the arrival of the 
bridal party, and my dear Constance, almost completely hidden 


HOLDENHURST HALL . 


274 

in white gossamer-like habiliments and attended by six maids, 
passed slowly up the church. 

Of the events between that moment and the conclusion of 
the ceremony, when we all left the church, I for a long time 
retained only a confused and general recollection ; but finally 
the particulars of the ceremony took shape in my mind, and 
now I can clearly recall the tall, commanding form and the 
clear impressive voice of the grand old Ulsterman, the officiating 
minister of the church ; and my uneasy glances at uncle Sam 
(whom I had never seen in such a place before), and my fear 
lest he should create a diversion by some eccentric conduct. 

Not until after the wedding party was assembled at break- 
fast did uncle Sam give rein to his usual pleasantry, and then 
to no very great extent. I remember he inquired, across the 
table, what my wife and I thought of the reverend gentleman’s 
boots. 

“ Think of the reverend gentleman’s boots ! ” I echoed in 
surprise. “Really I didn’t observe them. Did you, Connie, 
dear ? ” 

“Not very particularly,” stammered my wife, ineffectually 
endeavouring to suppress a laugh. 

“ Why, how can you say that ? ” asked uncle Sam. “ The 
reverend doctor wears the largest boots in New York, as many 
rash wagerers know to their cost; and I observed you both 
intently contemplating their dimensions while he was exhort- 
ing you to be mindful of your new duties. I assure you I am 
very glad if I am mistaken, for there could be no better proof 
of your attention to his precepts.” 

There was a suppressed titter at this ; but aunt Gertrude 
came to the rescue, and protested against remarks of a personal 
nature generally, and particularly in the case of a gentleman 
highly esteemed by all who had the privilege of his acquaint- 
ance. Uncle Sam agreed, and declared that he had only 
complimented the minister by asserting, in other words, that 
he had a larger understanding than any other man in New 
York. 


KvprjKa. 


275 


Several of my uncle’s friends tendered their congratulations 
in the time-honoured platitudes which have served on innumer- 
able similar occasions, after which uncle Sam rose, and glass 
in hand, invited all present to drink to the health, prosperity, 
and long life of the bride and bridegroom. “ For the happy 
pair opposite, who with all the courage of inexperience and in 
defiance of sages and satirists have given those hostages to 
Fortune which so many of us would like to redeem, I entertain 
a very special and real affection,” said uncle Sam. “ The bride 
is the only sister of my dear wife, and a daughter of my friend 
and benefactor. I have known her all her life, and I say of 
her, that no truer or more amiable lady can be found between 
Maine and California. She was my ward ; and my duty to her 
has been also my pleasure from the day I became her guardian 
until you saw me surrender her to her husband — and with 
her all that I held in trust for her, with something over and 
above. The bridegroom is the only son of one who, in my 
youthful days in England before I entertained a thought of 
setting foot on this continent, had promised to become my 
wife — a promise she was forced to break — and of my only 
brother, whom I do not expect to see again. It is for these 
reasons chiefly that I am prejudiced in favour of the bride- 
groom — for he is no genius, and I don’t suppose his unaided 
efforts would ever have burdened him with much property ; he 
is a trifle sentimental, and lacks resolution and fixity of 
purpose. Nevertheless he has proved himself a faithful friend 
and a pupil of at least average aptitude. It is with much 
pleasure and confidence that I ask you all to join me in wish- 
ing health, prosperity, and long life to Mr and Mrs Ernest 
Truman.” 

The toast was drunk with enthusiasm, everybody standing. 
In my brief reply I unreservedly admitted the accuracy of my 
uncle’s estimate of my powers, and congratulated myself on 
having won not only his goodwill but a wife the equal of his 
own in fortune and every personal grace, notwithstanding the 
natural defects to which he had called attention ; a retort which, 


2 y6 


HOLDENHURS 7 HALL. 


obvious as it was, seemed to put the company into great good 
humour. 

By this the hour was reached when it was necessary that my 
wife should prepare for our departure to Saratoga, and the 
party left the tables to inspect the wedding gifts, which were 
exhibited in a large room devoted exclusively to that purpose 
— a valuable collection of jewels and fancy articles, at which I 
could not look without the painful thought that nothing from 
Holdenhurst was among them. 

It wanted not more than half an hour of the time fixed for 
our departure w T hen uncle Sam, with an air of mystery, 
beckoned me to follow him. I did so, wondering w T hat his 
purpose could be. He led the way to his study, where aunt 
Gertrude and my wife awaited us, the latter now in a plain, 
tightly-fitting travelling dress, ready to depart. My uncle 
closed the door in a cautious w’ay as soon as we had entered 
the room, which circumstance, as well as the serious looks of 
aunt Gertrude and my wife, filled me with alarm. 

I was about to inquire the meaning of all this when uncle 
Sam spoke, my wife meanwhile observing me closely to note 
the effect of his words upon me. “A letter from England 
arrived for you this morning,” he said, “and by good fortune it 
fell into my hands. I have kept it from you until now, for your 
benefit ; for you would not have liked your marriage to have 
been again postponed. I don’t know how it may prove, but I 
greatly fear that it contains bad news. However that may be, 
take courage for your wife’s sake as well as your own. 
Remember my recent experience, and never let it be said that 
the old man was braver than the young one.” And having 
spoken thus my uncle handed me a black-bordered letter bear- 
ing an English stamp and the postmark of Bury St Edmund’s. 

A deadly faintness came over me, and a sudden dimness of 
sight prevented me from properly examining the letter. With- 
out doubt my dear father was dead, and my one remaining 
wish could never now be realised upon earth. I handed the 
letter to my wife, who stood at my side, her little hand 


E vprjKa. $yy 

affectionately laid upon my shoulder, and motioned to her to 
read it, which she ’ at once proceeded to do ; and she had not 
read many words before our mutual fears vanished like a mist 
in presence of the morning sun. 


Holdenhurst Hall, 

Bury St Edmund’s, April 23, 18 — . 

My dear Boy, — Come home. I shall know no rest until I 
see you here, and learn from your own lips that you are willing 
to forgive my errors of judgment. Consideration of the strange 
circumstances in which those errors were made, if not of the 
fact that you are my son whose welfare I have never ceased to 
desire, should induce you to afford me this gratification. 

The treasure for which you so industriously sought in face of 
so much discouragement has been accidentally discovered by 
your grandfather, minus only the three sequins which you used 
to carry in your pocket ; and not only this, but also a quantity 
of peculiar Turkish jewellery and precious stones of great value. 
Your grandfather and I have together carefully examined the 
whole of the vast treasure and have placed it in safe keeping, 
secure from further accident, to await your return ; for I have 
determined that if you will but come home to me, the disposal 
of the treasure shall rest entirely with you. You deserve it ; 
and I declare it to be yours, and yours only, subject to the one 
condition, of your coming to Holdenhurst to take possession 
of it. 

Some time ago your grandfather proposed that the old 
gabled granary at the back of the stables should be pulled 
down, and a more commodious granary built in another place. 
I agreed to the proposal, and last week the work of demolition 
was begun. At the north end of the loft, separated by a 
wooden partition from where the winter fodder has usually 
been stored, the treasure was discovered. That it was stolen 
from the crypt and secreted in the granary by Adams there 
can be no doubt, for the Venetian coins were in the black 


278 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


chests which you found empty in the crypt one memorable 
night. Believing, as I then did, that the treasure had been 
quite otherwise abstracted, I ordered Adams to remove the empty 
chests from the crypt and use them for firewood ; but instead 
of obeying me, he appears to have conveyed them to his 
hiding-place in the granary, and refilled them with the coins 
which he must have taken from them not long before. It is 
not unreasonable to suppose that the man with the lamp 
whom you saw in the crypt was Adams, and that the occasion 
was his visit for removing therefrom the last of the coins. 
Amongst our discoveries in the granary is a leather bag 
containing six hundred pounds odd in modern English money, 
which I am unable to account for except by supposing that 
it represents the lifelong savings of the extraordinary miser 
who was my servant. 

I address this letter to your uncle’s house, not knowing 
certainly that it will find you there. Let me beg of you to 
take the first opportunity to acquaint my brother with the 
discovery of the sequins. If you can conveniently do so, 
perhaps you had better show him this letter. And in any 
case be sure to impress upon him my very great regret for 
what transpired when he was last here, and what happiness it 
would be for me if that incident could be buried in oblivion. 
Your grandfather, who on the very day of his daughter’s rash 
act received from her a long letter taking upon herself great 
part of the blame of her past life, and entire responsibility for 
her tragic death, has no longer any cause for contention with 
your uncle, who, were he to come here, would be received 
with unrestrained friendship. Each member of our small 
family has been wronged by some other member ; no one of 
us stands blameless — not even yourself. Shall recrimination 
end only with our lives? Is it presumptuous to hope for 
peace, or must existing divisions be permitted to widen with 
the lapse of years ? O Ernest, my boy, if only you could 
bring about the termination of feuds for which all concerned 
are the worse, and no one the better, you would then have 


l&vpr)Ka. 


279 

found a greater treasure than that which awaits you at 
Holdenhurst ! 

I have heard that you are about to be married to Miss 
Marsh; but the information reaches me very indirectly, and 
I am not assured of its truth. Should such happily be the 
case (for I have long perceived the disposition of your heart), 
I congratulate you, and wish you and your intended bride all 
possible human happiness. — Your affectionate father, 

Robert Truman. 

“Ha!” exclaimed Uncle Sam bitterly, as my wife 
replaced the letter in my hands ; “ if only these two men had 
developed their present senses a year ago ! ” 

“Oh, Sam, dear,” cried aunt Gertrude, throwing her arms 
round her husband’s neck, “ what better news could you have 
than is contained in that letter ? ” 

“ None, now” uncle Sam answered quietly. 

“You will respond to your brother’s message in the spirit 
in which it is sent, will you not, dear?” pleaded aunt Gertrude, 
looking earnestly in her husband’s eyes. “ A vow of enmity 
made in anger is always better broken than observed, and this 
manly apology comes from your brother, father of Connie’s 
husband. Remember, Sam, what I have forgiven, and if only 
to gratify me, send your brother a telegram that I will write.” 

My uncle remained silent for a few moments, his gaze fixed 
upon the floor. Presently he looked up and said, “Write 
what message you will to those two men, Gertie, dear, and it 
shall be sent to them. My enmity is dead.” 

For this generous declaration, aunt Gertrude rewarded uncle 
Sam with a kiss, my wife followed suit, and I wrung his hand 
in silent gratitude, almost overcome by the completeness of 
my good fortune. 

The telegram indited by aunt Gertrude I have not seen 
but its healing effect is my constant daily experience, 
contributing — I cannot estimate how largely — to the happiness 
of our reunited family. The telegram which my wife and I 


2$0 


tiOLDkNHVRST HaLL 


despatched to Holdenhurst was a long one, consisting of no 
fewer than a hundred words. It acquainted my father with 
our marriage, and promised that we would proceed to 
England after we had stayed at Saratoga one week* or a sixth 
part of the time which we had arranged to remain there. 

“You are a tardy bridegroom, Ernest,” said uncle Sam, 
consulting his watch ; “ and you have lost your train. It is 
now two o’clock, so you will no further delay your arrival at 
Saratoga by returning to the company for an hour” — a 
suggestion at once adopted, to the satisfaction of everybody 
except my wife’s maid, who marvelled greatly at being bidden 
to remove her mistress’s hat, which she had not long before 
adjusted with infinite care and precision. 

The hour which the kindly fates had so unexpectedly placed 
at our disposal quickly passed, our assembled friends being 
infected with the great increase of good humour apparent in 
host and hostess, bride and bridegroom. Indeed, the 
universal jollity was so spontaneous and natural, and my 
satisfaction so unqualified, that I was astonished when the 
carriage which was to convey my wife and me to the depot 
was announced, so pleasantly and fleetly had the time sped. 

Our departure took place amid a chorus of good wishes and 
a shower of rice, whereof a certain handful was thrown by 
uncle Sam with such unerring dexterity that the greater part 
of it found its way down the back of my collar, and tickled me 
horribly in the region of the vertebrae until after we reached 
Saratoga. 


XXXIII 


CONCLUSION. 

Each mother’s son has toil and care, 

To bow his head and bleach his hair. 

Fate deals her blows with partial touch — 

Little to some, to others much ; 

Yet not so great ’twixt these and those 
The difference as men suppose. 

The man whose cares come thick and fast, 

Shall find contentment at the last, 

With a tra la la. 

It is the quality of happiness to present little or nothing to 
chronicle. My full, perfect, and complete contentment — in so 
far as such a desirable condition is ever permitted to a mortal 
— begun with the events described in the last chapter, and 
continues to this day. Here, therefore, am I constrained to 
bring these memoirs to a close ; and I do so with feelings at 
once of relief and regret — relief at the accomplishment of a 
task which, though at first undertaken with no more serious 
intent than the beguilement of a leisure hour,, soon assumed 
proportions too large for such desultory treatment, and; regret 
(incidental, . alas, to, all hupianity !) at my departing youth, in- 
recalling the incidents of which X have in, spme sort lived 
again. 

Uncle Sam has built for himself a palatial house in London, 
at Queen’s Gate, Hyde Park, where he spends about six 
months of each year, broken by frequent though brief visits to 
Suffolk, for he and his brother are now closer friends than at 
any former period of their lives. On such occasions he stays 


282 


HOLDENHURST HALL. 


with my father, or with Constance and me — for the fine estate 
of Heronsmere, adjoining Holdenhurst, for centuries the home 
of the Jarvis family, is now mine, bankrupt tenants and 
derelict farms having forced Sir Thomas Jarvis to sell his 
ancestral hall and acres. I am afraid very little of the 
purchase-money remained for the use of the unfortunate 
baronet after he had cleared off the mortgages with which his 
property was encumbered; but with the remainder, whatever 
it was, he has betaken himself to South Africa to repair his 
shattered fortunes. Uncle Sam, who conducted my purchase 
of Heronsmere, has predicted that Sir Thomas will be in 
England again in three years, “ returned empty,” like a 
merchant’s packing-case. 

His resolution not to further engage in business has been 
strictly adhered to by uncle Sam ; but his conduct is very 
erratic, and he crosses and recrosses the Atlantic at the most 
unexpected times, and has lost none of his old interest in 
government loans, treasury bills, and company promotion. 
Less rough in his allusions to subjects which many people 
regard with reverence — a change which some attribute to a 
more serious view of life induced by the tragedy with which 
he was so nearly concerned, and yet others to his natural 
urbanity being improved by a larger acquaintance with English 
society — uncle Sam is a general favourite, his company being 
at all times in great request, though hardly more so than that 
of the gentle lady his wife, whose amiability, large-hearted 
charity, and noble protection of the brilliant young imp known 
as “the cardinal” (to whom whatever of mischief in or around 
Holdenhurst is usually attributed), is the admiration of all who 
know her. 

About three months after my marriage, my wife and I and 
aunt Gertrude and uncle Sam were enjoying a post-prandial 
stroll on the lawn at the rear of my house, speculating as to 
the day and hour of arrival at Liverpool of the Majestic , which 
steamer was to bring to England a party of our American 
friends en route for Heronsmere, when my father unexpectedly 


CONCLUSION. 283 

appeared upon the scene, flushed by rapid walking, and with 
an amused smile upon his face. 

“ Have you heard the news ? ” asked my father unceremon- 
iously, without even waiting to greet the ladies present. 

“Yes,” said uncle Sam, although the inquiry was not 
particularly addressed to him. “I sent specially to Bury 
this afternoon for to-day’s Times (I couldn’t wait for it till to- 
morrow), and have read it through, advertisements not excepted. 
The English people have certainly gone mad, and the House 
of Commons differs only from other asylums for the insane in 
respect of the ravings of its members being reported. Do you 
allude to the second reading of the Bill for the Abolition of 
the Navy, or to the proposed national endowment of a 
Professorship of Anarchism, at the University of Oxford ? ” 

“No, no,” said my father; “the Rev. Mr Price is married.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” exclaimed uncle Sam, turning on his heel. 

“ Who is the lady ? ” asked aunt Gertrude. 

“ Mrs Butterwell.” 

The cigar I was smoking fell from my lips, and I indulged in 
a loud and prolonged laugh. 

“ Isn’t Mrs Price much older than her husband ? ” Constance 
inquired. 

“ Only forty-seven years,” replied my father. “ Major 
Armstrong has just told me all about it. Everybody is full 
of the news. Mr Price is now one of the richest men in the 
county.” 

“ Poor devil ! ” exclaimed uncle Sam ; “ he deserves to be ! 
Let no man trouble to revenge himself upon his enemies; 
leave them to their own devices, and they will themselves do 
all that is necessary.” 

After some harmless pleasantry at the expense of the Rev 
Mr Price and his bride, we leisurely re-entered the house. 

“ Connie, dear,” I whispered, as we crossed the threshold of 
our new home, “ I have often heard that love in a cottage is a 
failure, and I can well appreciate love’s difficulties in that 
state ; but though you possessed not the worth of a dollar and I 


284 


ROLDENHURST HALL. 


not the worth of a sequin, still I could be happy with you for 
my wife, labour for my portion, and one of those cottages in 
the lane for our home. In no circumstances could I have 
done what Price has done. It is too horrible even to 
contemplate.” 

“No, dear, I don’t think you could,” answered my faithful 
Connie ; “ but don’t be too hard in your judgments. I have 
heard that money is a terrible temptation to those who possess 
none, and it has been your fate to acquire much of it in 
unusual ways. Only a few men marry millionaire girls ; and 
fewer still, I fear, discover sequins in Suffolk.” 


THE END. 


An American Society Novel. 


GIRLS OF A FEATHER. 

BY 

MRS. AMELIA E. BARR, 

A uthor of “The Beads of Tasnter,” “ The Mate of the 1 Easter 
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An Exquisite Novel. 


APPASSIONATA. 


A MUSICIAN’S STORY. 


BY 


ELSA D’ESTERRE-KEELING, 


A uthor of 11 In Thonghtland and Dreamland etc. y etc . 

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Mrs. Southworth's Best Novels. 


ONLY A GIRL’S HEART, 

BY 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 


THE REJECTED BRIDE, 

Being “Only a Girl’s Heart,” Second Series. 


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A New Novel by the Author of “ A Priestess 
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COUNTESS DYNAR; 

OR, 

POLISH BLOOD. 


BY 


NATALY VON ESCHSTRUTH, 

Author of “ A Priestess of Comedy ,” “ A Princess of the Stage f 

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A SLEEP-WALKER. 


a Novel. 


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• • • - • • • - - ,v* 

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A New Novel by E. Werner, 


A Lover From Across the Sea. 


BY 

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TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY 

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A New Novel by the Author of “A Priestess 
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A PRINCESS OF THE STAGE. 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 

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Julien Gordon’s Novel from the German. 

COUNTESS OBERNAU. 


AFTER THE GERMAN 
BY 

JULIEN GORDON, 

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on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A War Novel, 


THE GUN-BEARER. 


BY 

EDWARD A. ROBINSON 

AND 

GEORGE A. WALL, 

Authors of “ The Disk,” etc . 


WITH ILL USTRA TIONS B Y JAMES FA GA N. 


12 mo. 276 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


A new and thrilling war novel of intense interest, narrating 
the experiences of a private soldier whose regiment joins Sher- 
man’s army at Buzzard’s Roost, and shares the fortunes of that 
army, participating in all the engagements up to the fall of At- 
lanta. Thence with General Schofield’s command, pursued by 
General Hood into Tennessee, contesting the ground foot by 
foot, the regiment finally joins General Thomas at Nashville. 
The story culminates with the desperate battle of Franklin, 
where General Schofield, with ten thousand men, wrestled with 
General Hood and three times as many Confederates. Vivid 
descriptions of soldier life in camp, on the march, in bivouac, on 
picket, in skirmish and in battle, sustain the interest and hold 
the reader’s attention to the end. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A Fresh Novel From the German. 


WOOING A WIDOW. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF 

EWALD AUGUST KOENIG. 

BY 

MARY A. ROBINSON, 

Translator of “ A Child of the Parish f etc. 


WITH JL VST&A TIONS B Y JAMES FA GA 


12 mo. 380 Pag-es. Handsomely Bonnd in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


Koenig is one of the most popular novelists of Germany, and 
“ Wooing a Widow” is his best work. The widow in the story 
has more than one wooer, and there is great uncertainty as to the 
one ultimately to win and wed her. It is an exciting story, with 
a succession of interesting incidents in the working-out of an ex- 
cellent plot. It is rare that we find a story from the German so 
well planned and so delightfully carried out. It can be read at 
one sitting without any feeling of fatigue, as the story is inter- 
esting from beginning to end. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


An Attractive Novel. 


HER LITTLE HIGHNESS. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 

NATALY VON ESCHSTRUTH, 

Author of “ A Priestess of Comedy ,” “ Countess Dynarf 
“ A Princess of the Stage f etc ., etc. 

BY 

ELISE L. LATHROP. 


WITH IL USTRA TIONS B Y JAMES FA GA N. 

12mo. 303 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


“ Her Little Highness ” is Baroness Eschstruth’s latest book 
and one of the most charming novels that has come from her 
pen. The little princess, who is the heroine of the story, is the 
heir of a ducul throne, which in Germany makes her a being apart 
from the rest of the world, which tends to heighten the piquancy of 
a being so very human and so very natural. Her little highness is a 
little woman from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and her 
love of Valleral, a gay and frolicsome courtier, is the most natural 
thing in the world. However unsuitable for the husband of a 
princess Valleral may be, the reader of the novel will enjoy the 
situation that the love affair creates. Valleral is a widower, with 
a son almost as old as the princess, and as sober as the father is 
frivolous. The little princess’s fate is bound up with these two, 
and we could not detail all the complications in their relations 
without depriving the reader of the pleasure of following out for 
himself a most interesting love story. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


An Original Story of Adventure. 


IN THE CHINA SEA. 


BY 

SEWARD W. HOPKINS, 

Author of “ Two Gentlemen of Hawaii ,” etc., etc. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY PRUETT SHARE AND H. J f. EATON. 

12mo. 300 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


“ In the China Sea” is a story of the Pacific Coast, where the 
almond-eyed Mongolians have a quarter in every city, whence 
they communicate with their kindred of the Flowery Kingdom 
across the seas. The story deals with the disappearance of a 
beautiful girl, who is traced to Portland, Oregon, where she is 
embarked on a steamer bound for China. There is an exciting 
pursuit and search for this beautiful girl. The extraodinary 
things which happen, the sights and people met with and de- 
scribed, in detailing this pursuit and search, render this story one 
of the most interesting and exciting productions of modern fiction. 
It will rank with “King Solomon’s Mines” and Jules Verne’s 
wonderful narrations. An unknown people of strange customs, 
manners and appearance is introduced. A great war is started, 
carried on and brought to a conclusion. The invention of the 
author seems to be boundless, and the interest of the reader is 
stimulated by the new and wonderful developments that crowd 
upon one another as the story proceeds. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


An Excellent New Novel. 


INVISIBLE HANDS. 


AFTER THE GERMAN OF 

F. VON ZOBELTITZ, 

BY 

S. E. BOGGS, 

Translator of “ The Little Countess ,” etc. 

WITH IL USTRA TfONS B Y JAMES FA QAN. 

12mo. 372 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


This is a most excellent novel. The incidents are natural and 
probable, although uncommon ; and the admirable plot is based 
on transactions in Berlin and in Italy, both German and Italian 
characters figuring in it. It is rare that anything so powerful and 
dramatic comes to us in the form of German fiction. The story 
is intensely interesting, constantly gaining as new characters and 
fresh incidents are introduced in the working-out of the plot. 
The character of the Italian lawyer is worthy of the times of 
of Machiavelli. It presents a lovely picture of German family 
life, and the female characters represent all that is charming in 
girlhood and womanhood. This is a novel which everybody can 
read with pleasure and profit. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


Yet She Loved Him, 

By Mrs. Kate Vaughn, 


AND 


Jephthah’s Daughter, 

By Julia Magruder, 

Author of “A Magnificent Plebeian fi “At Anchor f 
“Hoyiored in the Breach?' etc . 


With Illustrations by Warren B. Davis. 


12mo. 339 Pagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


“Yet She Loved Him” is a popular and sensational story 
of English life. It has many elements of interest, and will 
please all readers to whom a good story is the principal thing 
in a novel. Miss Magruder’s novelette, “Jephthah’s Daughter,” 
which is appended, is of a distinctly higher character. It is 
based upon the Biblical narrative, and is written in a style 
peculiarly appropriate to the subject, and full of beauty. The 
story is a brilliant piece of work. Nothing which Miss Magruder 
has written exhibits greater literary ability or more sustained 
power. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A Novel by Fanny Lewald. 


The Mask of Beauty. 

AFTER THE GERMAN OF 

Fanny Lewald, 

BY 

Mary M. Pleasants. 

With Illustrations by F. A. Carter. 

12mo. 340 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


Fanny Lewald is one of the most celebrated writers of Ger- 
many. Her books have enjoyed great popularity, but few of them 
have been translated into English. This is a story of Hela, a 
peninsula jutting out into the Baltic Sea, of which Dantzig is the 
principal town. The maid of Hela is a poor orphan, whose rare 
beauty is the cause of her many trials. She is bred in a fishing 
village among a superstitious people, full of curiosity, and isolated 
from her neighbors by reason of her parentage and religion. The 
story is a minute and realistic study of character, manners and 
customs of an out-of-the-way corner of the world. The extra- 
ordinary beauty of the girl Catherine, whose life history is nar- 
rated, is made the cause of every important situation and the 
final tragedy of the novel. Nothing can be finer than the patient 
and loving art with which the author has developed her subject, 
and exhibited beauty as the mask of a pure and beautiful soul 
unconscious of the dangerous possession. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A New Novel by the Author of “ In the ChltlH 5ea« M 


Two Gentlemen 

of Hawaii 

BY 

Seward W. Hopkins, 

Author of “ In the China Sea” etc . 

With Illustrations by M. Colin. 

12mo. 244 Pag-es. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


This novel deals with the revolution in the Hawaiian Islands. 
It takes the part of the revolutionists. It gives a complete 
account of the exciting events, beginning with the deposition of 
Queen Liliuokalani, the institution of the provisional government 
under President Dole and the offer of the islands to the United 
States. It is a thrilling picture of a period of intrigue, danger 
and revolutionary violence. Most of the characters are Ameri- 
cans concerned in the revolution, and the story is written from 
the point of view of a partisan who believes that the peace and 
prosperity of the islands are bound up with the new movement. 
It is a lively and interesting tale, full of sensation, with a vivid 
picture of the scenery and life of the islands and of the fatal 
malady with which the natives are afflicted. The terrors of lep- 
rosy are described. The superstitions of the Islanders and the 
volcanic eruptions on the Island of Lanai form a tragic back- 
ground to the story. At the present time, when public attention 
is engaged by the events transpiring in these islands, this novel 
has an especial attractiveness. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A Story of the French Revolution, 


The Shadow of 

the Guillotine. 

j BY 

Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., 

Author of “ The Gunmaker of Moscow ” “ The 
Outcast of Milan” “ Blanche of 
Burgundy” etc., etc . 

With Illustrations by Warren B. Davis. 

12mo. 429 P ogres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1 00. 

Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


This is an interesting and thrilling novel. Like all of Mr. 
Cobb’s works, it is interesting as a story from the beginning, 
dealing with historical scenes and events of one of the most ex- 
citing epochs of modern times. The French Revolution was the 
first great outbreak of the people against hereditary power and 
privilege. The ideas of liberty and equality and government by 
the people, which were its active principle, were obscured and 
caricatured in the sanguinary tumult and riot into which the 
movement degenerated under the leadership of Robespierre and 
his companions. Through this tempest of fire and blood Mr. 
Cobb takes his readers, and fastens their attention while portray- 
ing the charming and manly characters whose story he tells. The 
thousands who have read “The Gunmaker of Moscow ” will en- 
joy this novel. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


Story of a French Millionaire. 


Mystery of Hotel Brichet. 


AFTER THE FRENCH OF 

Eugene Chavette. 


With Illustrations by James Fagan* 


12mo. 358 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


This is a French novel the scene of which is Paris of the last 
century. The great robber Cartouche on his trial betrays his 
associates, and it is through one implicated by his testimony that 
the author introduces the history of the House of Brichet. Truth 
is said to be stranger than fiction, but the story of the galley- 
slave who escapes from Toulon to figure as the possessor of mil- 
lions in the capital of France will compare favorably with anything 
that ever happened in the world of reality. It is seldom that a 
novel filled with exciting incidents is so entirely consistent from 
beginning to end and which gains in interest as the plot develops. 
The novel has something of the spirit and “go” of Alexander 
Dumas's famous guardsman series, the most amusing character 
being a guardsman, a swordsman and a duelist. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


An Historical Novel, 


Blanche of Burgundy. 


BY 

Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., 

Author of “ The Gunmaker of Moscow f etc . 


With Illustrations by H. M. Eaton. 


12mo. 419 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


(i Blanche of Burgundy ” is a novel based upon incidents and 
scenes of a most interesting period of French history. It is the 
time of Charles the Ninth. The realm is divided into twelve great 
baronies or fiefs, the heads of which are princes almost independ- 
ent, owing military service and tribute to their sovereign. Charles 
has departed from France on the great mission of the Crusaders 
to rescue Palestine from the Moslem. The Duke of Burgundy, 
father of Blanche, is about to embark with his army for Egypt to 
join the king, but, before doing so, he awaits the marriage of his 
daughter, the beautiful Blanche, to Gregory of Franche Comte. 
The latter proves a difficult subject, and the complications which 
ensue make a highly interesting novel. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A Fresh German Translation. 


THE OPPOSITE HOUSE. 

AFTER THE GERMAN OF 

Nataly von Eschstruth, 


Author of “ A priestess of Comedy" “ A Prin - 
cess of the Stage ” “ Her Little Highness ” 

“ Countess Dynar etc., etc . 


With Illustrations by H. M. Eaton. 

12mo. 282 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


Nataly von Eschstruth’s latest novel is a romantic love story, 
full of interesting situations, diversity of character and thrilling 
episodes, all subsidiary to a well-constructed and carefully devel- 
oped plot. The heroine is a lovely countess of proud and an- 
cient family. The hero of the story is a manufacturer and 
belongs to the trading class, which in Germany is distinctly 
below the nobility. He throws up his business and takes an 
active part in the Franco-German War, and on the field of battle 
shows that there is quite as much nobility in the Prince of the 
Mill as in the titular princes of the court. We withhold the cli- 
max of the story, not wishing to dull the appetite and enjoyment 
of the reader. This forms one of the best volumes in the 
Ledger Library series of German translations. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


Mrs. Barr’s New Novel. 


The Flower of Gala Water. 

- • ' 

Amelia E. Barr, 

Author of“ Girls of a Feather ” “ The Bow of 
Orange Ribbon ” “ Friend Olivia ” “ The 
Beads of Tasmer ” “ The Mate of the 
i Easter Bell] ” “ Mrs . Barr s 

Short Stories” etc ., etc. 

With Illustrations by Charles Kendrick. 

12mo. 400 Pagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Uniform with 

“ Girls of a Feather.” Price, $1.25. Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


“ The Flower of Gala Water ” is one of Mrs. Barr’s most de- 
lightful novels of Scottish life and scenery. In her portrayal 
of Scotch character and manners she has no superior among 
contemporary writers. Her heroines are vital with love and fem- 
inine qualities, and possess an individuality which is charming. 
They have the freshness of youth and health, and impart to her 
pages their own attractiveness. Mrs. Barr’s fine sentiment and 
vigor of conviction have ample expression in her latest novel. 
No one can read it without having every noble feeling vitalized 
and exalted. It is this moral quality which renders “ The Flower 
of Gala Water ” a book to be placed in the hands of every boy 
and every girl. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


fieimburg’s Wew Novel. 


FOR ANOTHER’S WRONG 


AFTER THE GERMAN OF 

W. Heimburg, 

Author of “ Miss Mischief” 11 An Insignificant 
W oma n” etc . , etc. 

AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION 


BY 

A. W. AYER and H. T. SLATE. 

With Illustrations by James Fagan. 

12mo. 358 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


Heimburg’s new novel is an intensely interesting love story. 
It is based on the sentiments and emotions which fill so large a 
place in the lives of women, and, therefore, appeals strongly to 
their sympathies. In reading of these imaginary lovers many 
will find parallel experiences in their own lives. The story has 
a romantic plot, and the incidents are calculated to enhance the 
interest. This is one of Heimburg’s best novels. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A New Story by the Author of “ Two Gentlemen 
of Hawaii.” 


On a False Charge. 


BY 

Seward W. Hopkins, 

Author of “ Two Gentlemen of Hawaii” “/n 
the China Sea” etc. y etc. 


With Illustrations by H. 31. Eaton. 


12mo. 340 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


“ On a False Charge” is an exciting story of the great strike 
in the Pennsylvania coal mines, setting forth thrilling scenes and 
incidents and showing how the mining population are often the 
victims of unscrupulous and grasping agents. The facts of this 
story are true to life, and the scenes portrayed are taken directly 
from nature. The romantic interest which centers in the heroine 
is unsurpassed in any recent American work of fiction. Mr. Hop- 
kins has a lively and entertaining style, and his book is one that 
will please every reader of his former novels. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A Novel of Strange Adventures. 


A Treasure Found== 

A Bride Won 


BY 

George E. Gardner. 


With Illustrations by Warren B. Davis. 


12mo. 407 Padres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


This novel is a record of adventure in the Eastern seas, full of 
strange incidents and dangers, exciting profound interest. There 
is good descriptive work in the story, and it well repays perusal 
for the pictures of the life and scenery of the ocean. There is a 
story in it which grips attention at the start, and never relaxes its 
hold upon the reader until the end. The author has made good 
in this work his right to be numbered among the popular authors 
who introduce us to new and captivating fields of action. The- 
world is becoming so narrow and well-travelled that our best? 
writers enlarge its borders by the aid of imagination, and this 
faculty is the secret of their charm. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A Woman’s Book. 


The House by the River. 


BY 

Barbara Kent. 


With Illustrations by Warren B. Davis. 


12mo. 328 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


“ The House by the River” is a woman’s book from beginning 
to end. It is an interesting novel, with the principal scenes in 
the city of New York and in familiar localities. In the opening 
of the story there is a strong dramatic recital of events upon 
which the plot hinges, and which give a deep and thrilling inter- 
est to the development of the romance of two young lives. The 
vindictiveness of a man who has been compelled to do right under 
humiliating circumstances gives a strong motive to the whole 
action of the story. Every reader will be gratified by the way in 
which the conclusion is reached. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A New Novel. 


V 


At a Great Cost. 


BY 

Effie Adelaide Rowlands, 

Author of "Little Kit," "My Pretty Jane" etc . 


With Illustrations by Harry C. Edwards. 


12mo. 348 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


“ At a Great Cost ” is a novel of the same popular character as 
“Molly Bawn,” by The Duchess. It is thoroughly interesting 
as a story. Every reader will be delighted with it. The young 
English girl who is the heroine is like Wordsworth's “ Dora,” 

A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature’s daily food. 

A lovely and charming woman who fills the ideal of a sweetheart 
and bride, and the pleasant beginning raises expectations in the 
reader which are not disappointed in the conclusion. We re- 
commend it to all novel readers. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


THE CHOICE SERIES. 


No. and Title. 

1— A Mad Betrothal 

2— Henry 31. Stanley 

3— Her Double Life 

4— Unknown 

5— The Gunmaker of 3Ioscow... 

6— Maud 3Iorton 

7— The Hidden Hand 

8— Sundered Hearts 

9— The Stone-Cutter of Lisbon . 

10— Lady Ivildare 

, 11— Cris Rock 

12 — Nearest and Dearest 

13— The Bailiff’s Scheme 

14 — A Leap in the Dark 

15— The Old Life’s Shadows 

16— The Lost Lady of Lone 

17 — lone 

18 — For Woman’s Love 

19— Cesar Birotteau 

20— The Baroness Blank 

21— Parted by Fate 

22— The Forsaken Inn 

23— Otti’ie Aster’s Silence 

24 — Edda’s Birthright 

25— The Alchemist 

26— Under Oath 

27— Cousin Pons 

28 — The Unloved Wife 

29— Lilith 

30— Reunited- 

31 — 3Irs. Harold Stagg 

32— The Breach of Custom 

33 — The Northern Light 

34— Beryl’s Husband 

35— A Love 3Iatcli 

36 — A 3Iatter of 3Iillions 

37— Eugenie Grandet 

38— The Iinnrovisatore 

39— Paoli, the Warrior Bishop. .. 

40— Under a Cloud 

41— Wile and Woman 

42 — An Insignificant Woman 

43— The Carletous 

44— 3Iademoiselle Desroches 

45— The Beads of Tasiner 

46— John AVinthrop’s Defeat 

47— Little Heather-Blossom 

48 — Gloria 

49— David Lindsay 

50— The Little Countess 

51— The Cliautauquans 

52— The Two Husbands 

13— 3Irs. Barr’s Short Stories 

54 — We Parted at the Altar 

55— Was She \\Tfe or AVidow?... 

56— The Country Doctor 

57— Florabel’s Lover 

58 — Lida Campbell 

59— Edith Trevor’s Secret 

60— Cecil Rosse 

61— Love is Lord of All 

62— True Daughter of Hart enstein 

63— Zina’s Awaking 

Gi— 3Iorris Julian’s AA r ife 

65— Dear Elsie ... 

66— The Hungarian Girl 

67 — Beatrix Rohan 

68— A Son of Old Harry 

69— Romance of Tronville 

70 — Life of General Jackson 

71— The Return of the O’AIahony. 

72 — Reuben Foreman, the Alllage 

73— Neva’s Three Lovers 

74 — “Em”./. 

75— “Em’s” Husband 


Authok. 

I aura Jean Libbey 

llenry Frederick Reddall 

mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. South worth 

Sylvanus Cobb, Jr 

Major A. R. Calhoun 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Prof. Wm. Henry Peck 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Captain Mayne Reid 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

Laura Jean Libbey 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

Honore De Balzac 

August Niemann 

Laura Jean Libbey 

Anna Katharine Green 

Mrs. D. M. Lowrey 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Honore De Balzac 

Jean Kate Ludlum 

Honore De Balzac 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

a a a 

A Popular Southern Author 

Robert Grant... 

Mrs. D. M. Lowiey. (Translator). 

" E. Werner 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Sylvanus Cobb, Jr 

Auna Katharine Green 

Honore De Balzac 

Hans Christian Andersen 

W. C. Kitchin 

Jean Kate Ludlum 

Mary J. Safford 

W. Heim burg 

Robert Grant 

.Andre Theuriet. 

Mrs. Amelia E. Barr 

J ean Kate Ludlum 

Mary J. Safford. (Translator) 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

it ii ii 

S. E. Boggs. (Translator) 

John Habberton 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Mrs. Amelia E. Barr 

Laura Jean Libbey 

Majpolm Bell 

Honore De Balzac 

1 aura Jean Libbey 

Jean Kate Ludlum 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

a a 

From the German 

it ii 

Mrs. J. Kent Spender 

Elizabeth Olmis 

From the German 

ii ii 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Albion W. Tourgee 

Brehat 

Oliver Dyer 

Harold Frederic. 

Blacksmith. Darley Dale 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

31 rs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

ii ii ii 


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THE CHOICE SERIES==Continued 


No. and Title. 


Author 


77- 

78 

79 

80 
81 
82 
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84 
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90- 

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vo— The Haunted Husband 

-The Siberian Exiles 

-The Spanish Treasure 

-The King of Honey Island — 
-.Hate of the “Easter Bell”.. 

-The Child of the Parish 

-IVIiss Mischief- 

-The Honor of a Heart 

-Transgressing the Law 

-Hearts and Coronets 

-Tressilian Court 

-Guy Tressilian’s Fate 

-Mynheer Joe 

-The Froler Case 

-A Priestess of Comedy 

-All or Nothing 

-A Skeleton in the Closet.. 

-Brandon Coyle’s \\ il'e 

Love 


Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Col. Thomas W. Knox 

Elizabeth C. Winter 

Maurice Thompson 

Mrs. Amelia E. Barr 

Marie von Ebner-Eschenhacli 

W. Heimburg 

From the German 

Capt. Frederick Whittaker 

Jane G. Fuller 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis « 


St. George Rathborne 

From the French by H. O. Cdoke... 

Nataly von Eschstruth 

Count Nepomuk Czapski 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. South worth 


HonoreDe Balzac. 
From the German . 


The Tell-Tale Watch 

-Hetty; or the Old Grudge — J. H. Connelly 

-Girls of a Feather Mrs. Amelia E. Barr 

-Appassionata Elsa D’Esterre-Keeliu<? 

-Only a Girl's Heart Mrs. E. D. E. N. South wort] 

-The Rejected Bride “ “ “ 

-Gertrude Haddon “ “ “ 

-Countess Dynar, or Polish Blood. Nataly von Eschstruth 

-A Sleep- Walker Paul H. Gerrard 

-A Lover From Across the Sea and Other Stories. E. Werner. 


-A Princess of the Stage. 

-Countess Obemau 

-The Gun- Bearer 

-Wooing a Widow 

Her Little Highness 

-In the China Sea 

-Invisible Hands 

-Yet She Loved Him 

-The Mask of Beauty 

-Two Gentlemen of Hawaii.. 
-The Shadow of the Guillotine 

-Mystery of Hotel Brichet 

-Blanche of Burgundy 

-The Opposite House 

-The Flower of Gala Water.. 


Nataly von Eschstruth. 

Julien Gordon 

E. A. Robinson and G. A. "Wall. 

Ewald August Koenig 

Nataly von Eschstruth 

Seward W. Hopkins 

F. von Zobeltitz 

Mrs. Kate Vaughn 

Fanny Lewald 

Seward W. Hopkins 

Sylvanus Cobb, Jr , 

Eugene Chavette 

Sylvanus Cobb, Jr 

Nataly von Eschstruth 

Mrs. Amelia E. Barr 

W. Heimburg 

Seward W. Hopkins 


For Another’s Wrong 
-On a False Charge 

-A Treasure Found— A Bride Won. George E. Gardner 

-The House by the River Barbara Kent 

-At a Great Cost Effie Adelaide Rowlands 


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Every Number Beautifully Illustrated* 


DEC £•> Vj -.6 ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Publishers, 

Cor. William and Spruce Sts., New York City. 











